Familiar of the Fairy
by Juubi-K
Summary: Reconquista is defeated, but dark forces and darker ambitions threaten to plunge Halkeginia into war. Meanwhile, Louise has a plan to get Tiffania away from Saito once and for all; by summoning her Familiar.
1. Prologue

**Familiar of the Fairy**

**A Zero no Tsukaima/Familiar of Zero fanfiction**

**Written by Juubi-K, based on concepts developed by Zaru and Juubi-K**

**Prologue**

_**Outside Rosais, former Kingdom of Albion, 10**__**th**__** Day of Yara.**_

"Why'd I have to get involved?"

It was pretty much a rhetorical question by that point, but he could not help but say it.

It was cold, the wind like a knife on his cheek. There was no snow, not this far south, but the ground was hard and icy under his feet.

He was cold. His feet hurt, and his legs ached from walking.

"Why'd I have to get involved?" Saito Hiraga asked again, to no one in particular.

"That's the fourth time," came a metallic voice from his back. "And you know the answer."

"Yeah, I do."

It wasn't his war. It wasn't even his world. Only a year or so ago, the affairs of Albion and Tristain had no meaning for him at all. He hadn't even known they existed. But for that strange, shimmering mirror that had appeared before him one day, he might never have known. He might have been back in Tokyo, living in the comfort of his home, eating the foods he was used to and surfing the net when he felt like it. Maybe the online dating service would have sent a reply.

Or maybe it wouldn't have.

Saito sighed. He could resent his situation all he wanted, but he was in no position to complain. Fate had handed him a chance to return home, and he had turned it down. He could have walked away any time he wanted, offering his sword and his power to anyone who might have a use for it. He could have just run away, escaped on another ship, and damn the consequences.

But he hadn't. He had taken the mission upon himself, and marched towards the seventy-thousand-strong army currently advancing on Rosais. His task was to hold them back, to keep them occupied for as long as possible, so that the allied forces could escape.

So _she _could escape.

He had never thought he would die for anyone or anything, let alone _her. _For so long he could not understand why those damn nobles were so determined to throw their lives away. After seeing Professor Colbert breathe his last, having sacrificed himself to save them all, he had not _wanted _to understand. He had resented Louise for seemingly learning nothing from the professor's death, for proclaiming her desire to die for her Queen just a few days afterwards.

Then again, Henrietta _was _her childhood friend. Saito supposed that laying down your life for a dear one made _some _sense. If it didn't, then what was hedoing?

And then he saw them.

He could just make them out, as he started up a rise a few miles outside Rosais. A cluster of dark shapes on the top of the hill, visible against the glow beyond. Saito strode on, strangely emboldened by the sight of his destiny. Though night was falling, the twin moons were high and bright, allowing him to see them as he drew closer. Twenty foot soldiers, half with bows, half with short spears, strung out in a skirmish line.

Saito reached over his shoulder, his hand closing around the handle of his sword, Derflinger. The unique weapon had been with him since not long after his strange adventure had started, and would be with him then, at the end.

"We're on, partner?" the sword asked, the hinge about its rain-guard clacking up and town as it spoke.

"We're on, Derf."

Saito broke into a run, Derflinger held out in front. He heard a shout from the soldiers as they noticed him, followed a moment later by the _thwok_ of an arrow taking flight. The arrow whistled as it cut through the air, coming closer and closer.

The runes carved into his right hand glowed, and Saito felt his tiredness and pain disappear as the Gandalfr's power flooded through him. He flicked his sword from side to side, the arrow hitting the blade with a metallic clink and spinning away into the darkness.

The spearmen were coming at him. Two of them advanced, while the others spread out in pairs to surround him. The archers held back, arrows on their bows. Saito's mouth split into a sour, bitter smile as they came on. In a world of powerful magic and terrifying monsters, the grunts knew to be wary of one man charging at them with a sword.

The pair in front of him charged. Saito could see their mouths, just visible under the visors of their sallethelmets, open to scream their harsh battlecries. One came straight at him, jabbing with his spear, while the other came on a little way to his right.

"_Clever…_"

Their intent was plain. One would menace him, goading and poking at him as if he were a wild boar, while the other moved around to stab him from a safe distance. The others were holding back, because they would like as not just get in the way.

But Saito Hiraga was not so easily put down.

He held his course, allowing the spearman to come close. Then at the last moment he jinked right, the spear's blade slitting his blue and white parka as it hissed past. The soldier's roar became a cry of surprise as Saito brought his sword down on the base of his neck. He screamed as Derflinger cut down, blood spurting as the blade shattered his collar bone. But Saito was already moving, twisting his dying enemy around to block his still-living comrade's attack. He pulled the blade free, letting the dead man fall as he slashed at the jabbing spear. The haft broke in a shower of splinters, causing the soldier to snarl in frustration as he dropped it and reached for his sword. But Saito was already charging, bringing his sword up at waist height. The blade struck the man under his breast plate, slitting through the quilted gambeson and tearing into flesh. Blood spurted, and the man fell screaming.

Saito heard the creak of bows being drawn. As the arrows flew he was reacting, bringing Derflinger up to catch them. He struck away one arrow, then another, then another, the white-fletched shafts clattering to the ground around him.

The other spearmen were coming, four of them this time, closing on him from his side and rear. Saito charged the nearest one, cutting the man down so quickly he barely perceived the deed. He struck at another, so fast that his assailants seemed to be moving in treacle. Then another, and another, until no more stood before him. The remaining four spearmen charged, shrieking in blended fury and fear. But Saito was in another place, a place where he felt no pain, and had no limits. There was only the flash of the blade as he struck at them, the spray of blood as he cut them, the cries as they fell.

The archers were running, disappearing down the hill, yelling at the tops of their voices. Saito slumped to his knees as the power receded, his lungs burning and grating in his chest.

"Why'd I have to get involved?" he asked, for the fifth time since he had walked out of Rosais.

"It's for the woman you love, right?"

A vision of _her _hovered in his mind's eye. That billowing mane of pink hair, those wide purple eyes, sparkling as she smiled at him, raising the glass to her lips. He saw her eyes close, her slim body falling softly into his arms, sleeping like a child.

That was the Louise he had chosen to die for. That was the Louise he had fallen in love with, the Louise he couldn't forget no matter how paranoid or violent she could be.

"I'll die, won't I?"

"Yep," the sword replied. "Everyone does, sooner or later. So you might as well go out in style."

The wind blew, making the grasses rustle. The twin moons, one blue, one red, were high and bright.

"Yeah, you're right."

Saito forced his aching legs to straighten. As he rose, he looked down the hill and onto the flat plain beyond, onto which the army of Albion was slowly marching.

The host before him seemed vast, the light of their torches flickering like sunlight reflected off a great dark sea. There must have been thousands down there, but Saito knew that it could only be the vanguard. There were many times their number behind them, trudging through the cold night, a lumbering mass of humanity set on a single destination.

He understood what the cardinal had in mind. It was like trying to ride the subway during the rush hour. If he could make the vanguard stop in order to deal with him, then the column behind would blunder right into it, and those behind into them, and again and again until the whole army was in chaos. It could take them hours to sort it out, by which time his friends would be safely away.

Saito _charged. _He felt the Gandalfr's power flood through him again, washing over his agonized muscles, silencing the cries of his heart and lungs. It blazed out behind him like a jet engine's exhaust, propelling him over the undulating landscape far faster than his legs alone could manage. Saito let out a cry of mingled rage, despair, and exultant joy. He was going to die, but he would die in the full glory of his power, finding out once and for all just what he could do.

He could see the enemy clearly, illuminated in the light of their burning torches. He saw a line of mages, their bodies hidden by voluminous robes and face-concealing hoods, levelling their staves at him. Blasts of searing light leapt from the tips, hissing through the air towards him. Saito felt their heat as they flashed past, and the shudder through his feet as they impacted the ground around him. But still he charged, focussing all his attention on an open space just behind the first line of enemies. He _leapt, _pouring the Gandalfr's power into the space below his feet. Saito soared over their heads, landing with a gymnast's grace he had never possessed.

As he straightened up, he heard and saw them turning to face him. They seemed strangely hesitant, as if they were not quite sure what they were dealing with.

There were common soldiers there, bowmen and spearmen no different from those he had fought a few moments ago. He saw knights too, their bodies swathed in voluminous black cloaks topped with pauldrons and gorgets of polished steel, their faces concealed by great cylindrical helms, each decorated with a black cross into which the eye slits were set. Some held gleaming longswords at the ready, while others carried long, vaguely sword-like magic wands.

They were mage-knights, the warrior elite of the Halkeginian nobility. There were even one or two dragon knights, with their distinctive purple cloaks, black armour, and rapier-like wands. They must have been on foot for want of dragons, or else had landed their mounts earlier and come running when the alarm was given.

Saito was surrounded, and he knew it. As his enemies finally remembered what they were supposed to be doing, Saito acted. He drew once again on the Gandalfr's power, swinging his sword about him in a slash that sang as it cut the air. The strange magic lashed out in a gust of wind, sending the unsuspecting warriors tumbling and crashing over the grass. It bought Saito a moment to ready himself, his attention falling on a single man-at-arms who had managed to remain on his feet. Saito charged straight at the man, bringing his sword around to strike him in the chest. He heard the clang as Derflinger struck the breast plate concealed under the thick black cloak, and felt the shudder run through his arm that, had it not been for the Gandalfr's power, should have pulverized his wrist. The man-at-arms fell backward, his armour intact, but his heart and lungs perforated by his own shattered ribs.

More were coming, charging out of the billowing dust. Saito leapt and slashed, cutting down a charging soldier. As he landed he swung up and around, catching a man-at-arms in the chest. A mage knight came at him, a blade of channelled magic shimmering about his wand, capable of cutting through steel as easily as Derflinger cut through flesh. Saito dodged an overhead blow, kicking out with one leg to catch the knight in the knee. The knight staggered, and Saito cleaved him almost in two. Another came at him, and another, and another. They came from all directions, jabbing and slashing even as he cut them down.

"Saito!" Derflinger called. "Look out!" Saito looked up, and saw a roiling ball of fire many times his size coming his way. The ball struck the ground in front of him, hurling him away in a blast of scorching-hot air. He hit the ground, rolled, skidding on his front.

"You all right partner?"

"Damn it!" Saito cursed, forcing himself to look up, an ironic smile on his face. "If I'd know this would happen, I'd have done it before the ceremony."

He rose, and ran. More fireballs came, much smaller than before, but in greater numbers. Saito screamed a curse as he slashed at them, the bolts dissipating as Derflinger's blade disrupted the magic that contained them. The cluster of mages up ahead tried to run, but Saito was upon them, cutting one of them down, then another.

As he turned his head, two dragon knights were charging him. The closest was a young man maybe a few years older than himself, with blond hair and a patch over his right eye. Saito brought up his sword, readying himself for a thrust from the knight's rapier-wand.

But the knight did no such thing. Instead he grabbed his purple cloak with his free hand, wrenching it free and swiping it at Saito. The cloak blinded him as it flapped over him, but Saito leapt back in reflex, barely avoiding the glowing blue blade. The cyclops thrust again, and again, swiping with his cloak between thrusts, forcing Saito back. Saito snarled in frustration and charged, batting the wand aside and barrelling into the knight, sending him crashing to the ground. He rolled over the man and to his feet, only to find the second dragon knight almost upon him. Saito darted sideways to avoid the knight's thrust, then spun to bring Derflinger down on his head. The blade slashed down, cutting through the black helmet and biting into the flesh beneath. The knight _screamed, _staggering back and falling to the ground. The helmet fell apart, momentarily revealing a bloody, mangled ruin before his hands covered it.

Saito spun round, and saw the blond cyclops, his hard face a mask of fury. He was trying to stand up, but one leg seemed to be giving him trouble. Saito prepared to strike, but then the youth's single eye widened, and he threw himself down and rolled away. For a moment, Saito wondered what on earth he was doing.

Until he saw the shadow settle over him. He spun round, and found himself staring at the underside of what appeared to be a massive, green-skinned, but otherwise human foot. Saito leapt back, barely avoiding the foot as it stamped down, the impact sending him skidding away on his back. He came to a halt, and looked up at the massive shape.

It was a troll, one of the many seemingly-fantastical creatures that inhabited Halkeginia. Basically human-shaped, but with green skin and the size of golems, trolls regularly tagged along with human armies in search of a fight. Judging by the chains around its torso, it had been hauling heavy loads before being let loose.

Saito leapt to his feet, ready to fight the monster. But what sounded like the chittering of insects drew his attention to one side. He saw a great block of archers, maybe a full company, loosing their bows at him. They shot by sections, a few twenties firing while others reloaded, creating a tight hail of arrows. Saito brought up Derflinger, flicking the blade back and forth in front of him, knocking the arrows away as fast as he could, the white-fletched shafts covering the ground around him like ears of corn.

But the arrows were too many for him to catch. Some slipped past, slashing at his parka and pants, tearing at his skin. He felt a stinging pain in his cheek, and hot blood running down his legs.

Then, at last, the Gandalfr's power faded. Saito felt himself falling, yet barely felt the impact. He wondered how much blood he had lost, how many wounds had been struck without him noticing.

He saw Louise again, hovering at the edge of his consciousness. He saw her bright smile, a rare moment of untainted joy. He saw her standing before him in the chapel, clasping his hands as they made their pledge.

"_Ah Louise…_" he thought wistfully.

Would she mourn him? Possibly. Would she cry for him? Almost certainly. A part of him ached at the thought of causing her such pain, even as another enjoyed the idea that she might actually miss him, that she valued him enough to weep for his loss.

And then he thought of his family, back in his own world. Were they still looking for him, still wondering what had become of him? Or had they given him up for dead? Would they ever learn of his fate, of his death on a distant battlefield?

Saito began to wonder what was taking them so long. He could turn his head a little, but he couldn't see anything but arrows and bodies. Were they _that _scared?

There was a glow at the edge of his vision, illuminating the soldiers, and the banners fluttering overhead. It could have only one meaning.

"_Louise…" _He saw her again, her head half-turned to glance at him, a slight smile on her face. "_I…I don't want to die yet…_"

And he didn't. As he lay there, in the final moments of his life, he realised that he really didn't want to die after all.

He wanted to live. He wanted to go home to them all, to see their smiling faces, to laugh with them at their everyday troubles. He wanted to hold Louise in his arms, to kiss her, and make love to her, as he had dreamed of doing. He wanted to marry her, and then, if the fates allowed, take her back to Japan with him, to meet his parents, and his old classmates, to make his two worlds one.

He remembered that flower she had bought him, one of a set of two with a name he couldn't pronounce. Supposedly both would shine so long as those who carried them remained alive, their glow fading if one should die.

At least she would know he was gone.

"Partner!" Derflinger called desperately, as the Albionian mages let loose their spells. Searing beams of light leapt into the sky, curving downward in a sharp arc. Saito squeezed his eyes shut, his heart erupting from within him.

"LOUISE!"

And there was only light.

* * *

**I split the first part into a separate prologue, so that the following chapters would be around the same size. I've also made some minor alterations, and added the dates after I found an article on the ZnT wiki. I also corrected a mistake mentioned by deathhound7 regarding Cardinal Mazarin giving Louise the mission. Thanks for mentioning it. **

**According to the article, a Halkeginian year is made up of 384 days, split into 12 months of 32 days, and four weeks of eight days. Only a few of the months had been confirmed, so I had to fill the gaps in myself. For your convenience, here is the list I am using for this fic;**

_**Winter**_

**1 - Yara **

**2 - Hagalaz**

**3 - Ansuz**

_**Spring**_

**4 - Feoh**

**5 - Ur**

**6 - Gebo**

_**Summer**_

**7 - Sowulo**

**8 - Nyo**

**9 - Niord**

_**Autumn**_

**10 - Jera**

**11 - Tyr**

**12 - Wynn**

**I based these timings on the Light Novels. The Advent Festival, began on the first day of Yara (New Year's Day), and Sheffield put her plan into action on the tenth day of the festival. Cromwell uses the term 'Pentecost' or 'Silver Pentecost' to refer to it, though this could refer to the tenth and final day. **

.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

There was only light.

His pain was gone, like a distant memory. For a while, Saito concluded that he must be on his way to the hereafter, to wherever human souls ended up. By all rights he should have been profoundly relieved, overjoyed even, to learn that there was indeed life after death.

But…why was it taking so long? Should he have ended up somewhere by now?

"_Gandalfr…_"

He felt something like consciousness return. He was sitting on soft grass, propped against what might have been a tree. It was dark, but for tiny points of light in the air all around him.

"_Gandalfr…_"

He finally perceived the voice. It was feminine, and quite high-pitched. It seemed to be coming from in front of him.

"Gandalfr, wake up" it said, with such gentleness that Saito thought it must be an angel. "Gandalfr, left hand of God."

It caressed his cheek, its touch feather-light. Saito managed to look up, and saw that it was very much like a human hand and arm, clad in gleaming samite.

"Return." He followed the slender arm up to the shoulders, and then the neck, and then the face. Saito was spellbound by the vision, with its wide blue eyes and long golden hair, and that loving smile. He thought it must indeed be an angel, until he noticed the pointed ears, which made him think more of an elf, or a fairy.

"Return," she said again, "to the place where you belong, to those who await you."

And then he saw them.

He had never seen their like before, and probably never would again. They bulged under her green dress, heaving against the thin cloth, their features set in sharp relief. As she lowered her hand, they bounced and giggled back and forth.

"They're huge!"

* * *

_**Toulon, Kingdom of Gallia, 18**__**th**__** Day of Hagalaz, Year **__**6243**_

The port of Toulon was busy, as it generally was.

Like many ports, Toulouse was built into a natural harbour. The first thing any approaching vessel saw was the long promontory that reached out over the harbour mouth from west to east, protecting all inside from the stormy sea as the bastions built on it protected them from enemy ships.

Toulon was port both of trade and of war. Cargo ships moved in and out by the dozen every day, carracks and fluits from the north, galleys and galleasses from the south and east. Ships from northern Gallia and Tristain, from the decadent city-states of the Yspano peninsula to the east, and from the Ausonia peninsula beyond that, the domain of the holy city of Romalia.

In the military docks sat the warships of the Royal Navy, tasked with protecting the sea lanes from pirates and the petty navies of the Yspano cities, not that there was always much difference. The kingdom's military airships were serviced in the _Tour Royale, _a rather understated name for the mighty fortress that loomed over the harbour from a natural bluff to the east.

The ship that approached Toulon that fine morning was not like any of them.

Its name was _Drinker of the Wind, _in the language of those who had built it. It was narrow and low-slung like a galley but had no oars, its three lanteen sails carrying it gracefully into the harbour. Its crew were about their work, calling to one-another in a language somewhat familiar to the people of Toulon, but utterly alien to other Halkeginians.

If one could meet an Arysian anywhere, it would be in a place like Toulon.

The man who stood on the foredeck, gazing out over the harbour, was well aware of that fact. The port of Tyrus, from which they had begun their journey, was similar in that respect.

If only in that respect.

Majid did his best to keep his face straight, and to not wrinkle his nose. The rumours about Halkeginians and their personal hygiene, or lack thereof, were apparently true. He began to wonder, not for the first time, if this journey had been such a good idea.

"Majid look! A dragon-rider!"

The joyous cry drew his attention to his companion. The boy standing next to him was dark-skinned like himself, but with white-blond hair as opposed to his black, a strip of white cloth tied around his brow. His eyes sparkled with excitement as he pointed up at the sky. Majid followed his gesture, and there indeed was a dragon, wings spread wide, taking off from the fortress overlooking the harbour, a tiny human figure just visible on its back.

"It's the first I've ever seen!" the boy went on, almost bouncing for joy. "I've heard that the Elves ride dragons, but I never thought I'd see one!"

Majid's face was unchanged, but a part of him inwardly smiled at his young charge's pleasure. Suleiman Reza Al-Karim had been the centre of his world for as long as his life had been worth living. His happiness was Majid's happiness.

And yet…

"What a wonderful adventure this will be!" Suleiman proclaimed happily. "Don't you think so, Majid?"

Majid did not reply. He could not, for something terrible had blazed up inside him, blotting out all other thoughts.

He _hated _it. He hated all of it. He had hated having to spend weeks on that wretched ship, forcing down the muck they called food only to puke it all up every time they ran through some heavy seas, the sailors laughing at him all the while. He hated the thought of wandering through the ugly-looking, foul-smelling city to which he was being delivered. He _hated _the thought of what was likely happening back in Arysia, what he and Suleiman had no choice but to run from.

Worst of all, he hated the fact that his young master was there to share it with him. They had slept together on hard planks under a single blanket, eaten from the same pot, and drank the same water.

It was hateful. It was _unbearable_. It was _never_ meant to be like this.

"Majid?"

He mastered himself, and his anger turned to shame as he saw Suleiman looking up at him, obviously worried.

"Forgive me, young master," Majid said. "My…mind wandered." Suleiman looked away, and Majid knew with a wrench of his heart that his attempt had failed.

"I know, Majid," he said, suddenly sorrowful. "I know this isn't what you wanted. I know you didn't want to leave Arysia. I just thought…I hoped this could be fun all the same."

"Young master." Majid felt ashamed of himself. "My only concern is your safety, and my only wish is your happiness. It was General Silat who bade us leave, and I trust his judgement."

He pictured his old mentor. In his mind's eye he saw the hard, narrow face, and the gimlet eyes that seemed to bore into his soul, the eyes that had glared down upon him through all those agonizing hours. Every time he thought he couldn't continue, that he could never succeed, it had been those eyes that drove him on.

"As you say, Majid." He felt his heart lift as the smile returned to his young master's face. "But let's have fun while we're at it, shall we?"

"Yes, young master." Smiling, Majid looked up as _Drinker of the Wind _manoeuvred itself in towards one of the docks.

He could cope with the smell, he decided, if the trip made his young master happy.

* * *

_**Romalia,**_**_ Ausonian Peninsula, 1__st_**_** Day of Ansuz** _

It was a beautiful city.

Romalia's architecture was of a style that had been popular for the last century or so. The buildings were of pale grey stone, the roofs covered in curving tiles. The wide streets were paved with close-fitting slabs of sandstone, with lines of trees running down the middle of the widest boulevards. Each boulevard led to an open plaza, decorated with statues, elegant fountains, or sometimes both. Romalia was not merely a holy city, but an airy and easy city, as comfortable to commoner as it was to cleric or noble.

The buildings might have been recent, but the foundations and street plan dated from many thousands of years earlier, when Romalia had been the centre of a mighty empire reaching into Gallia, Germania, and even the Rub'al Khali. The long, wide streets were reminiscent of that era, as were the sewers below them. The most important buildings were of gleaming white marble, many of them dating back to the glory days themselves. The Papal cathedral itself was a reconstruction of the old Royal palace, serving the Popes as it had Romalia's long-dead Kings.

To Vittorio Serevare, Saint Aegis the 32nd, Shield of the Founder, _Pontifex Maximus_ of the Holy Church, the apparent irony of this coming-together of old and new was a reminder of one of life's harshest and most valuable lessons.

_All things end._

All tangible things, all _constructed _things, even the lives of men. Only a thought could live forever, if it had but one heart in which to reside.

This lesson was the truth of Romalia's history. Millennia ago Romalia had been a secular kingdom, almost identical to the guardian kingdoms of Gallia, Tristain, and Albion. The only difference was that whereas they had each been founded by one of the Founder Brimir's sons, Romalia had been founded by his apprentice, Saint Forsythe, around whose tomb the city of Romalia had been built.

It had been the only difference, but a big difference. Whereas the guardian kingdoms had practiced hereditary succession, the Kings of Romalia had come to be selected by the senate or by their predecessors, meaning that would-be Kings had a great deal to prove. And during Romalia's imperial adolescence, the most effective way to prove one's worth was conquest.

Romalia's empire had reached its height under Julio Cesare, who had conquered half of Gallia to earn the crown. But over a century following his murder, the empire's territories were gradually nibbled away. Gallia had regained its lost lands, and a coalition of northern tribes overran the County Palatine of Germania, eventually taking that name for their country. Even the colonies in the Rub'al Khali were lost, to the armies of a distant and mysterious nation that called itself Arysia. The seemingly immortal glory that was Romalia was reduced to dust on the wind.

Only the faith had survived. Only the church had stood, when all else was lost. Even as imperial control retreated, the worship of the Founder advanced. Even as the last Romalian legions withdrew from Gallia and Germania, all of Halkeginia worshipped Brimir in the Romalian fashion. The glory of the empire had faded, but the truth that was the divine Founder had lived on, shepherded and guided by a succession of Popes.

What was currently bothering Vittorio was how he, the current Pope, should go about continuing in this fine tradition.

He sighed as he heard the shuffle of robes behind him.

"You must forgive me, archbishop," he said, knowing who had been standing there awaiting his pleasure. "My thoughts were…over-wrought."

"It is I who should ask your forgiveness," replied his guest, bowing his head respectfully, "for requesting audience at this difficult time."

"It costs me nothing," Vittorio said graciously, holding out his signet ring to be kissed. "For I have need of your counsel."

"And I am glad to give it."

Archbishop Fernando Sotomayor, Grand Master of the Order of the Scarlet Tower, straightened up before him. Like Vittorio, he was a relatively young man for so important a position. He was tall and lean, his body clad in a white cassock over which was hung a mantle of crimson and gold, emblazoned with the emblem of his order. His skin was pale like Vittorio's own, but his hair was a short, curly silver, in contrast to the young Pope's long, straight gold. His purple eyes were full of sincerity.

"Walk with me a while, Grand Master," Vittorio gestured along the long gallery. Fernando fell in beside him as they strolled along, croziers clinking on the polished malachite.

"It seems that matters grow ever more complicated," Vittorio mused. "You have, I trust, been following the war in Albion?"

"I have, Holiness. I keep hearing of a…_curious _incident near Gotha a few months ago." Fernando's smile remained in place, but his purple eyes fixed on Vittorio's own.

"You refer to the incident," Vittorio replied, smiling indulgently, "involving the young Madame de la Valliere, her familiar, and the flying machine named the _Dragon's Cloak_?"

"Yes, your Holiness." Fernando looked contrite. "Please forgive my presumption, Holiness. Be assured that the secret is entirely safe with my order."

"Don't apologise, Fernando my brother." There was a twinkle in the young Pope's eyes. "It just means I can talk with you about it without fear. Yes, Grand Master, it is my firm conclusion that Louise de la Valliere is indeed the bearer of the Void, and that her young familiar is the legendary Gandalfr. I thank the Founder that he survived."

To hear it said aloud was enough to make Fernando Sotomayor shiver, though he already knew it in his heart to be true. That the Gandalfr had faced down the heretic Reconquista army and come out alive was, in his eyes, all the additional proof he needed.

The Void, the legendary Fifth Element, the source of all magic, had manifested at last. Manifesting, as was prophesied, within the four nations, and bound to the Founder Brimir's four familiars.

_Gandalfr, the Shield of God, bound to Tristain._

_Windalfr, the Flute of God, bound to Romalia._

_Myzothirirn, the Mind of God, bound to Gallia._

_Lifdrasir, the Heart of God, bound to Albion._

So it had been prophesied. The time foretold was upon them at last.

"That makes three of them now," he said, his voice almost hoarse with the weight of it. "And Myzothirirn is bound to a madman."

"Indeed," Vittorio agreed darkly, the smile falling from his face. "I fear what Joseph of Gallia might do with such power, and what he might already have done."

"I for one never expected him to stab Reconquista in the back like that," Fernando commented. "To betray an alliance so quickly."

Pope and archbishop were silent for some time. The distant sounds of the city reverberated along the arched corridor around them.

"What was it you wished to see me about?" asked Vittorio, changing the subject.

"As your Holiness knows, I have been in Germania these past months," Fernando replied gravely. "This was mostly to oversee certain matters of my order's business in the Palatinate. However, I thought to oblige your Holiness by seeking audience with Emperor Albrecht."

"Ah yes. How is his Majesty?" Fernando paused, and Vittorio knew what the answer would be.

"His condition weakens him with every passing day. He does his utmost to conceal it, but the truth is plain to those who know how to seek it. His physicians inform me that the cause is a malignancy in the stomach."

Fernando's words hovered in the air like dark cloud.

"Could they offer a prognosis?"

"The Emperor is being well cared-for," Fernando replied cautiously. "He may linger on for many months, though I doubt his regime will last that long. The Imperial magnates will begin to suspect, if they do not already." Vittorio sighed as he took it all in.

"Also, your Holiness, the situation is growing more complicated." Fernando paused. "I don't know if you're aware of it, but Duke George of Kurland has himself passed beyond."

"I am aware, Fernando. May the Founder receive and comfort him."

"Is your Holiness aware," Fernando went on, "that the late Duke willed his territory to the King of Varangia?"

"So it is true then," Vittorio mused darkly. "I can't imagine the Margrave of Selonia took the news well."

"He is, to use the vernacular, hopping mad," Fernando replied sourly. "The Grand Dukes of Selonia have coveted Kurland for centuries. If the Emperor's sickness were to become known, his grace might be tempted to take matters into his own hands."

"Resulting in a war that could set all of Germania aflame." The Pope sighed a world-weary sigh. "You do know, Fernando, how this will complicate things for me?"

"I have a shrewd idea, Holiness."

Vittorio strongly suspected that he did. Despite his carefully-constructed image of quiet and sincere piety, Vittorio knew that Fernando Sotomayor was ambitious. Ambition was not necessarily a sin, in moderation, but it tended to lead a certain kind of person into the upper echelons of the Church. Such people tended to be good at acquiring and interpreting information, particularly about the ambitions and intentions of their colleagues.

He wondered how much Sotomayor truly knew. Did he know how many of the Cardinals still supported the recusants against the Varangian crown? Did he know how many were willing to go beyond rhetoric? Did he know what they might be willing to do to get their way?

Did he know what would have to be done if humanity was to survive?

"Holiness," Fernando went on, suddenly serious. "You must not be swayed by the Cardinals. These troubles are an irrelevance, a distraction from our true purpose."

"You are right of course," Vittorio replied, equally serious. "Our long-awaited crusade. Soon we will reclaim the land of our Founder, Brimir, and fulfil the purpose he intended."

"His will be done," Fernando intoned piously. They were silent for a while, savouring the shared moment of pure purpose.

"Will you be staying in Romalia, archbishop?"

"For a few days, Holiness, or else as long as you have need of my presence."

"Fear nothing, Fernando." Vittorio managed to smile. "I ask only that you come tomorrow. There is another matter we must discuss. Until then, my brother."

"Until then, Holiness." Fernando bowed low, brushing his lips over Vittorio's signet ring, then backed decorously away down the gallery. Vittorio watched him as he reached the appropriate point and turned his back, keeping his eyes firmly on the retreating figure until it disappeared around the bend in the corridor. He felt himself relax at the soft footsteps approaching him.

"That man," said a very familiar voice, "is dangerous."

"Of course he is dangerous, Julio. His profession attracts dangerous men."

Vittorio's smile widened as he turned to regard his Familiar. Julio Cesare's hair was blond like his own, but much shorter and far less tidy. It struck out in long spikes, giving him a devil-may-care look that matched his personality. When combined with his face, with its high cheekbones and tapering chin, it was enough to make maidens all across Halkeginia curse the day he embraced the priesthood.

Then again, they could be forgiven for not even guessing that he was a priest, for he did not dress like one. His long white coat and tall boots, to say nothing of the rapier at his hip, were better suited to some young saber-rake or officer than to a man of the cloth.

Not that Vittorio minded. He more than forgave Julio's eccentricities, for his value to the Church, and to Vittorio himself, was beyond compare.

"You know how I feel about…_inquisitors, _Holiness." Julio's handsome face twisted with distaste. "But there's something more to him than any of the others. I've never seen…_eyes _like those."

"But _I _have, Julio. Many times."

Vittorio turned to look his Familiar in the eyes. They were his most distinctive feature, one being blue and the other red. Moon Eyes, or so the phenomenon was widely called, for they matched the blue and red moons that orbited the world. Some thought the Moon Eyes a blessing, a sign of divine favour or providence. Others thought them a curse, a presage of disaster. For his own part, Vittorio knew in his heart what the answer had to be.

"Are you afraid for me, Julio?" he asked teasingly. "Do you fear that I can't handle someone like him?"

"No," Julio replied, barely suppressing a blush. "I only ask that you be careful. He is not above murder, and worse things besides."

"If I condemn him for that," Vittorio retorted dryly, "I would have to condemn half the aristocracy of Halkeginia."

"Oh at least." Julio cut in, his smirk returning. The sight of it made Vittorio smile again, for he was glad to see it.

"By the way," Julio went on. "I've just gotten a very strange report from Toulon."

"From Toulon?" Vittorio cocked an eyebrow. "Whatever could it be?" Without a word, Julio handed him a slip of paper. Vittorio read it, his smile falling from his face.

"Where are they now?"

"They were seen crossing the border into Liguria two days ago."

"Liguria?!" Vittorio almost swore. "The road will take them right under the Scarlet Tower! If they're taken…!" He trailed off, an image of Sotomayor's face flashing through his mind.

"If I leave now, I can intercept them at Sottolatorre," Julio said determinedly. "Archbishop Rumpoli is heading north by that road. I can attach myself to his party to avoid suspicion."

"Yes, yes of course," Vittorio mused, thinking fast. "I'll write you an order."

* * *

**_Liguria, Ausonian Peninsula, 10__th__ Day of Ansuz._**

The village was a pleasant place, or so Suleiman thought.

It was named Sottolatorre, which apparently meant _Below the Tower_ in the local tongue. The buildings were of buff-coloured sandstone, with perpendicular angles and sloping tiled roofs. The larger buildings came with plain, square columns and triangular lintels over the doors. It was a style of architecture Suleiman had seen before, in Toulon and Tyrus, both of which had been colonies of the Romalian empire. Whereas those cities over-awed with buildings of garish, gleaming white marble, the softer sandstone of Sottolatorre gave the place a warm, inviting air.

The villagers were very much so. Located just next to the main road to Gallia through the northern mountains, the village was accustomed and welcoming to travellers, evidenced among other things by the bevy of taverns and coaching inns clustered near the road. In theory it should not have been difficult to find somewhere to stay.

"I really can't understand it," Suleiman commented as they strolled along the street. "To think that so many would be completely full."

"Young master must not settle for just anything," Majid replied darkly. "Young master must remember who he is."

"As you keep telling me, Majid." Suleiman glanced up at his taller, rather taciturn companion. Majid was a _ghulam_, a slave given the honour of bearing arms, but Suleiman head never thought of him as such. For as long as he had known the man, he had always been at least a dear friend, at most a second father, or the older brother he never had. He loved Majid, but his companion's attitudes were not always helpful.

"In any case," Suleiman went on, as they approached another establishment. "We should…"

He was cut off as the doors in front of him burst open and something flew through them, hitting the street with a thump. Majid dived in front of him, his travelling cloak blowing aside as he reached for his scimitar.

"And don't you try coming back!" barked a female voice from inside. Suleiman and Majid stared as a young woman of about Suleiman's age stepped out into the street. She was rather pretty, with long brown hair, large dark eyes, and a small nose, her prettiness marred only by her towering fury.

"Abrienne! My love!" protested the object in the street, which turned out to be a young man. "My angel!"

"Don't you _my angel_ me!" Abrienne shrieked back. Suleiman noticed, having finally drawn his attention from her bust, that she was carrying a lute. This she raised high above her shoulder, grasping it in both hands. The young man had just enough time to turn pale in the face before the lute struck him, shattering as the impact hurling him away down the street. Abrienne threw the severed head of the lute after him, and snorted with derision. She turned to storm back inside, then stopped suddenly as she saw Suleiman and Majid. There was an awkward pause.

"Might we," Suleiman began, trying not to sound nervous, "ahem…trouble you for…a room?"

The girl stared at him for a few moments, then sighed.

"Sorry about that." Her fury spent, her voice sounded more normal. "You said you wanted a room?"

"If you have one."

"Oh, sorry." She looked and sounded apologetic. "We'd have something normally, but Archbishop Rumpoli's holed up in my function room eating me out of house and home and his cronies have taken all my rooms. I just hope he deigns to pay me."

"Oh," Suleiman said, crestfallen. "I suppose it can't be helped." Abrienne regarded him with what might have been sympathy, but there was calculation in her eyes.

"Best I can offer you is room in the cellar," she said. "It's not much, but I can have the girls set you up beds down there if you're willing to wait. And it's half price. It's that or the stable, and there's dragons in there."

"We'll take it," Suleiman replied, smiling.

"No we won't!" Majid interjected angrily.

"Yes we will!" Suleiman insisted immediately, forcing his smile to stay in place.

"Young mas…!"

"Yes we _will_!" Suleiman shot Majid an angry look, and the ghulam fell into sullen silence. Abrienne regarded them dubiously, her eyes falling on the object just visible over Suleiman's shoulder.

"That on your back," she pointed at it. "Can you play it?"

"This?" Mildly surprised, Suleiman pulled the instrument over his shoulder. It was somewhat like a lute or guitar, but with a long neck that made up most of its length.

"It is a sitar," he said, more than a little proudly. "And I play it well."

And he had, in any number of taverns and inns all across southern Gallia. It was his personal joy, and a nice little earner, though Majid had grumbled about the indignity of it.

"Then I'll do you a deal!" Abrienne replied quickly. "Beds in the cellar up front, and ten ducats if he pays me, if you'll play for the archbishop!"

Taken aback, Suleiman did not reply straight away.

"Ten ducats!" Abrienne insisted. "Proper gold, not like those lousy Ecus!"

"Oh, by all means!" Suleiman proclaimed, smiling again. "If it is to help you, then you need not…"  
"Twenty ducats!" Majid growled, cutting him off. "My young master is of no common order! Double if they aren't pure!" Abrienne gave Majid a hard look, and Suleiman blushed with embarrassment.

"Fine, twenty," she said eventually. "But that's only if that old blubber heap bothers to pay me!"

"By all means!" Suleiman replied, beating Majid to the mark.

They followed Abrienne through the doors and into the inn. The ground floor was full to bursting, with all the round tables taken and the bar positively heaving with customers, the only sound the rumble of conversation punctuated by the occasional clink of glass on glass. Young girls moved here and there waiting tables. Suleiman could not help but think there were too few for such a crowd.

Abrienne led them around the throng and through a side door into a narrow corridor, then through another door and down a set of narrow steps.

The cellar was considerably better than Suleiman had expected, being neither half so dank nor so foul-smelling, nor so dingy. Abrienne led them between the stacked bottles and casks, some of them taller than Majid, to the rear of the cellar.

"Here's the best place for sleeping," she said. "I'll have the girls bring pallets and sheets down straight away."

"Thank you." Suleiman set down his pack, Majid doing likewise, and both removed their travelling cloaks. Both were dressed in a manner common in Arysia, with baggy white trousers tucked into sturdy boots, long-sleeved white shirts and short-sleeved blue jackets with open v-necks. Both wore red sashes about their waists, the loose ends hanging down. The outfits caught Abrienne's attention.

"I've never seen clothes like those," she said, looking at them with what might have been suspicion. "Where'd you get them?"

"At a market, in Toulon," Majid replied. Abrienne seemed to accept the explanation.

"Anyway, what's your name?"

"Lei."

"Okay, Lei, you'd better come now or the archbishop will start getting antsy. Oh, and you won't need any of those." She gestured with her finger at the scimitars sheathed at Suleiman and Majid's hips. "His guards will never let you up there armed."

"As you wish." Suleiman pulled the scimitar from his sash and laid it with the rest of his meagre accoutrements. Majid stood stock-still, returning Abrienne's gaze.

"I mean it," she said. "Leave it here or stay, but you're not going up there with all that."

She had a point, or so Suleiman thought. Along with his scimitar, a set of round chakrams also hung at Majid's waist. On his back were a powerful recurve bow and a quiver of arrows.

"Majid, it's all right," he said, hoping to calm his friend. "I'll be safe up there." Majid gazed into his eyes, as if gauging what he found there.

"_You know I will be,_" he thought. "_I don't need a sword to protect myself_."

"As you wish, young master." Majid inclined his head, and Suleiman headed off after the slightly exasperated Abrienne.

And he was alone.

The sensation was strangely unsettling to Majid. He had been so close to his young master for so long that to be suddenly separated left him feeling bereft, as if some inner part of him had been suddenly removed. Or was he just afraid for his young master's safety?

He willed himself to calm. There was no obvious danger, and his young master had _that _to draw upon if all else failed.

If nothing else, he would know for certain that his young master needed him.

"Forgive me for asking, Miss Abrienne," Suleiman asked as she led him through the labyrinth that was the cellar. "But is this inn yours?"

"It is," Abrienne replied, her tone harsh. "Got a problem with that?"

"Oh, not at all!" Suleiman protested, blushing. "I was just surprised. It seems out of the ordinary in…well, these lands." They stopped, and Abrienne gave him an appraising look.

"Well, if you want to be pedantic, it belongs to my father's cousin, but he's down in Aquilea. He and my father bought the place a year ago, but he died so I run it now, which is as good as owning it when you get right down to it."

"I see." Suleiman felt his spirits wane. "I'm…so sorry."  
"What for?" There was a flash of bitterness in her eyes. "It wasn't you who killed him."

There was an awkward silence, and Suleiman felt sadness well up from within him.

"My father…is also dead," he said, trying to break the silence. "For what it's worth…"  
"No, I'm sorry," Abrienne apologised, sighing. "Couldn't stop myself."

"I should apologise," Suleiman pressed. "It was not for me to ask."

"If that's the case," Abrienne replied, some of her hard edge returning, "why don't you tell me something Lei, if that really is your name. What are you really?"

"I don't know what you mean." Suleiman's tone was level and reasonable, belying his pounding heart.

"You've only spoken Gallian since you came in here," Abrienne went on. "But not any dialect I've ever heard. Your clothes aren't fine enough for a noble, and you certainly don't act the way some of them do. But you've got a servant, and there are gracious nobles as well as arrogant bastards. So which is it Lei? Commoner like me? Or noble like them?" she jerked her thumb towards the main room.

Suleiman tried to gather his thoughts. He had encountered nobles as well as commoners in the course of his travels, and knew he didn't really fit into either category. She had no reason to think he was an Arysian, and Majid was probably right in thinking that it wasn't something they should declare openly. But if he lied, he was chancing his imagination against her life's experience, and she already thought his Gallian was a bit strange.

Or was it something else she was worried about?

"Please be assured, Miss Abrienne," he said, as calmly as he could manage. "My friend and I mean you no harm, nor anyone else for that matter. We're just passing through on the way to Romalia."

"It's not me who might get hurt," Abrienne replied darkly. "But I'll trust you for now." Not sure what to say, Suleiman followed as Abrienne led him back up the stairs, and then up the main stairs to the first floor. Whereas the back corridors had been plain, the area into which she led him was finely-decorated, evidently meant to give an air of style and sophistication. A pair of double doors stood up ahead, evidently the entrance to the function room. Two tall men, their bodies swathed in white cloaks topped with pauldrons and gorgets of polished metal, flanked the door.

A third man was standing ahead of them, clad in a long white coat and white trousers, a rapier at his hip. He had rather unkempt blond hair, and eyes that sparkled in amusement as they fell on Abrienne and Suleiman. Suleiman met his gaze, and noted with some surprise that one eye was blue and the other red.

"Ah, Abrienne!" the man proclaimed, evidently pleased by their arrival. "You found another musician!"

"I did, Father Cesare" Abrienne confirmed. "This is Suleiman, and he says he's very good."  
"In which case I, Julio Cesare, will put my trust in you." Julio, for that seemed to be his name, shot Suleiman a friendly grin. "Why don't you inform his grace, Abrienne, while I show our young virtuoso to the players' box."

"As you wish, Father Cesare." Abrienne dropped a curtsy and headed for the doors.

"This way." Cesare led Suleiman over to what appeared to be a patch of wall. It was only when the priest pressed one of the wall panels in that Suleiman realised his intent.

"Unfortunately you still count as a servant," Julio quipped as closed the door behind him. "Which means you have to go unseen."

Before long they reached the players' box. This turned out to be a very small room with a bench, the only source of light being the latticework that made up most of one wall. Suleiman guessed by the noise coming from the other side that it was the function room, and that the event involved large amounts of food.

Despite the privation, being their felt strangely nostalgic. A memory flashed into his mind, of sitting on his father's lap in a little room like that, a rumble of conversation coming from beyond the lattice. He remembered glancing up at his father, seeing the intent look of concentration on his face as he listened to every word.

"I should get back." Julio patted him on the shoulder. "Impress me, _maestro_." With that, he headed back down the passage.

Suleiman sat down on the wooden bench, and began to check his sitar. His hands acted in reflex, tightening and loosening the strings with delicate finesse, his ear picking up the slightest shift in timbre.

As he straightened up, he heard a bark of laughter from across the lattice.

"Ah! Music at last! Tell him he can start right away!"

"Yes your grace," said Abrienne's voice. "Please don't hesitate to request anything you need."

"_Now,_" Suleiman thought, letting the music rise inside him. "_That one…_"

The music came, flowing from his heart, out through his hands, and into the strings. The music emerged from the strings, the delicate sounds reaching out into the box, and then into the function room. Suleiman felt himself relax as the music washed over him, his fingers moving as if by themselves.

After what seemed like an eternity, the piece came to an end. It took Suleiman a moment to realise that the rumbling noise from the chamber beyond was applause.

By the time he heard the function room filing out, Suleiman had lost count of the number of pieces he had played. But his fingers were aching, and his throat was dry, so he was glad of the halt.

As he emerged from the secret passage, he found Abrienne waiting in the foyer for him, grinning from ear to ear.

"As promised." She held out a small leather purse. "Twenty ducats, and a friend in Abrienne Minnelli." Suleiman smiled and took the bag. It felt reassuringly heavy.

"Aren't you going to count it?" she asked, as he made to fasten the bag to the belt under his sash.

"No need," Suleiman replied. "You don't seem like someone who'd cheat me." Abrienne blushed.

"You're nice," she said, sounding like an embarrassed little girl trying to talk to her favourite boy. "But I'd feel better if you did."

"Well if you insist."

Suleiman poured the coins onto his hand. Twenty, thick and golden, emblazoned with an escutcheon that looked like an open oval with a pair of wings. He pulled the touchstone from the bag on his belt, and rubbed one of the coins against it as Majid had taught him.

"You were right," Suleiman said, beaming. "These coins are very pure. Whose sign is this?"

"Why that's the Pope's sign." Abrienne made some sort of gesture over her chest, too fast to make out. "His gold's good, not like some of them. Oh by the way, Father Cesare's down in the cellar with your man. He said he wanted to talk."

"Oh. Thank you."

"Just come on up if you want something to eat."

They headed down the stairs, going their separate ways at the bottom. Suleiman all but skipped down the stairs to the cellar, eager to show his earnings to Majid.

Then stopped suddenly, when he saw the scene taking place.

He saw Majid, his narrow face hard with anger, a gleaming chakram in each hand. Julio Cesare was there too, rapier at the ready, smirking as if the whole situation were a mere amusement. Both were statue-still, tension coming off them in waves.

"What's…." Suleiman gaped, frozen in fear.

"Young master," Majid hissed, glancing at him. "Run!"

"Majid…"

"Calm yourselves," Julio said, in a level tone. "I came here to talk, not to fight. I mean no harm."

"Majid," Suleiman said, voice quavering with fear. "Let's hear him out."

"Young master!"

"Majid," Suleiman pleaded. "Please, trust me."

Majid's eyes flickered from Suleiman to Julio, to Suleiman, to Julio, back and forth again and again. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he lowered his chakrams. Visibly relieved, Julio likewise lowered his rapier.

"Thank you," the priest said, sheathing his weapon. "Maybe now I can explain myself."

"I think you should," Majid replied coldly, as Suleiman hurried to his side.

"Our meeting was no coincidence," Julio said, ignoring his terseness. "Though it was pure chance that it took place in this building. Though I am ostensibly accompanying the archbishop, my intention here was to find the both of you."

"For what purpose?" Suleiman asked, intrigued.

"To tell you both to turn back." The smile vanished from Julio's face. "For your own sakes."

"But why?" Suleiman asked, confused and a little hurt. "What wrong have we done?"

"As far as some in these lands are concerned, you were born," the priest replied. "People tend to take religion very seriously in Romalia, perhaps too seriously. And you are, after all, from the Rub'al Khali." Something in his eyes told Suleiman that he wouldn't accept any denials.

"That…is true," he said, not daring to look Majid in the face. "We are from Arysia."

"From _Arysia_." Julio rolled the word over his tongue. "I wasn't sure, but I suspected you might be from Arysia."

"May I ask why?"

"Because of certain things I hear in sailors' taverns." Julio smirked, leaning his arm on a rack of smaller casks, as if he were telling a friendly anecdote. Following his movement, Suleiman's eye fell on a strange mark on the wall, barely visible behind the casks.

"Yes," Majid drawled darkly. "You seem like the type."

"I hear there's been some trouble in Arysia" Julio went on. Suleiman could almost see lightning crackling between their eyes. "The Sultan is dead. Blood runs in the halls of the Sublime Porte. The Merchant Princes are gathering their armies." His smirk widened. "And here the two of you are, having cleared out of Arysia in a considerable hurry. Methinks you had good reason."

Suleiman's heart hammered in his chest. There was no way he could _know_, was there? He couldn't possibly know.

Could he?

"Fear nothing," Julio reassured them. "I'm not here for your secrets. All I want, and all my…_patron_ wants, is for you both to turn back. You won't be entirely safe anywhere, but you've half a chance so long as you stay out of Romalia."

"If my young master is in danger," Majid replied. "We'll leave now."

"No, not now," Julio warned. "The Scarlet Tower isn't far from here, and they patrol the roads at night. They're not actually hunting you at the moment, but if they catch you out there it won't go well for you."

"The Scarlet Tower?" Suleiman asked. "Who are they?"

"People you really don't want to meet on a dark night." Julio sighed. "I should be going, but will you give me your word you'll both leave tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then I'll take my leave." Julio gave them a shallow. "I'm only sorry we had to meet under these unhappy circumstances." He swept out.

"He's right, young master," Majid said darkly. "You are not safe in these lands."

"Safer than in Arysia, my good ghulam," Suleiman replied tersely, irritated by the verbal poke. Majid looked away, sullenly. Suleiman sighed, and began undoing his headband.

"I know what you're thinking," he said, as the headband fell away. His ears, long imprisoned by the white cloth, sprang into place. "You think we should have travelled to the homeland of the nomads, to Paristan."

"Young master." Majid's face remained sullen, but Suleiman could see that he understood.

"My father once told me," he went on, half-sour, half-sad. "Humans, they merely despise. Elves who walked out on them, they _hate. _These," he flicked one of his long ears ruefully, "would bring me no succour there, and far less for you, Majid."

Suleiman knew very little of the _Pari,_ as his people called the elves, beyond what his father had taught him. The only Pari he had ever met were Arysians like himself, the half or full-blooded descendants of the nomads who had followed the Prophet Cyras in times long past, and taken humans as their companions. His own father had been full-blooded elf, born to two half-blooded parents. Such births were unusual, and regarded as a portent of great events.

"Young master." Majid finally looked him in the eyes. "It is not for you to care what happens to me. If you could be safe in the Elvish lands, I would endure anything to bring it about."

"You don't know the Elves," Suleiman retorted, trying to sound decisive. "And neither do I. Besides." He managed a tired smile. "I would rather die than see you suffer for my sake, Majid." Majid looked away, and Suleiman could have sworn he was blushing.

"We should get some sleep, young master."

"Yes, we should." As Majid headed for the low bed set up for him by the staff, Suleiman tied his headband back in place. There was no point in taking chances. This done, he was about to turn in himself, until he was suddenly reminded of the strange mark on the wall.

It took only a moment to find it again, behind the stack of casks. Leaning close to peer at the mark, he saw that it was shaped somewhat like a tower, of the sort he had seen on noble escutcheons or street signs. He wondered what it meant.

"What is it, young master?"

"Oh, nothing."

He put the matter aside, and headed for his bed.

* * *

**_Margraviate of Anhalt-Zerbst, Germanian Empire, 13__th__ Day of Ansuz._**

A masterpiece.

Professor Jan Colbert, formerly of the Royal Tristain Magical Academy and currently in the service of the most noble House of Anhalt-Zerbst, had tried for many years to cultivate true modesty. He had managed it for the most part, limiting himself to the life of a humble teacher, trying to atone for a single, terrible mistake. But despite his efforts, there was still a part of him that yearned to reach for the stars. It was the part of him that invented things, coming up with new uses for old spells, or new spells for new needs, or ways to do things without recourse to magic at all. It was the part of him that yearned to use his talents, to let the fire within him burn without limit.

The ultimate expression of that tendency loomed in front of him. His greatest achievement, his one undeniable success, and the ultimate proof of what he had come to believe.

_Ostland._

The margrave had insisted on secrecy, but there was no building in Halkeginia large enough to house what he had wanted built. They had been forced to use a mountain crag, shaped to purpose by Earth magi, with canvas sails strung over it on chains, keeping out the elements and prying eyes. Forges and blast furnaces had been built around it, fed by cartload after cartload of iron ore and coal brought down from the mines that were the lynchpin of Anhalt-Zerbst's wealth and power. When the carts proved insufficient, the margrave had ordered the wagonways extended from the nearest mines, the wooden tracks snaking through the mountains and over the landscape like great wooden serpents.

What a joy it had been to witness it all. In all his life Jan had never thought he would witness such energy, such industry, and in the winter to boot.

He had overseen every part of it, involved himself in every aspect, every process. He had watched wind mages funnel air into the blast furnaces, while worker drained away the slag and poured out the glowing liquid steel. He had persuaded the margrave to provide coke for the furnaces, so as to heat the metal more cheaply, and anthracite to strengthen it. Using anthracite had been a calculated risk, and he could tell by the looks on the old sweats' faces that they hadn't expected it to work.

They hadn't expected to have to work with mages either. Nobles were generally happy to enrich themselves by investing in industry, but thought it _déclassé _to actually get involved. Those who did tended to be the disgraced and desperate, individuals of unpredictable ability and intent. Only in Germania could he have found willing and capable mages so easily.

The fruit of their labour, the union of their effort and his genius, loomed before him. It was not particularly large as ships went, being only eighty mails from prow to stern and a hundred and fifty mails from wingtip to wingtip. He had heard in telling that Varangia was experimenting with cladding their ships in iron or steel, as the Elves had been doing for some time, and as he had done with the lower hull.

But nowhere in all the world, not even in the Elvish lands, was there a ship like _Ostland_. His _Ostland_.

Jan scanned the mighty vessel from bow to stern, almost needing to lean on his staff. Even then, still shrouded in scaffolding and gantries, it was an overwhelming sight. He took in the gracefully-curving upper hull, made from timber planks cut and shaped to order at lumber mills all across the margraviate. He saw the steel-clad lower hull below it, flaring out in symmetry with the upper hull. His eyes drew him to the mighty swept-back wings, one of the vessel's most revolutionary features. Made entirely of steel and lined with vertical steering rudders, whole new riveting techniques had been invented in order to build them. But the most revolutionary features of all were located halfway along each wing, with another set into the stern. It was because of them that the _Ostland _had no masts.

Jan had wanted to see a steam engine ever since he had first heard of them about a year earlier. The device he eventually found atop one of Anhalt-Zerbst's many coal mines had not disappointed, neither in its wonder nor its simplicity. Water was boiled, allowing steam to rise through a valve into a cylinder, which pushed up a piston. This in turn forced up one end of a rocking beam, forcing the other down in the process. Water would then be released into the cylinder, condensing the steam to create a vacuum which drew down the piston, thus hauling down the beam.

The result was a constant up-and-down motion capable of handling very heavy loads, ideal for pumping unwanted water out of a mine. All Jan had needed to do was come up with a way to make it turn a horizontal shaft, a simple matter of rigging it with a connection rod and cam.

Or at least, it had _seemed _like a simple matter at the time.

Jan sighed as his eyes fell on the stern of the ship, the engine housings still incomplete. Only the stern engine had actually been installed, in accordance with his revised specifications. He just hoped it would work this time. The margrave had been more than generous already without…

"Oh Jan _darling_!"

Jan froze as a pair of uncomfortably familiar arms hooked through his right arm. The arms tightened, pressing his arm into something warm and soft while hot breath tickled his ear.

"Are you admiring the fruit of our love, Jan?"

"Miss Zerbst…"

Despite the reputation he had acquired back at the Royal Tristain Academy of Magic, Jan Colbert _had _been involved with women, at least back in the day. But that had been a couple of decades ago, and he had long since assumed that, with his less than fashionable hobbies and his balding head, further involvement was unlikely. He had certainly not expected to have Kirche Augusta Fredericka von Anhalt-Zerbst, heiress to the margraviate of that name and one of his students to boot, throwing herself at him as if there were no tomorrow.

As uncomfortable as he felt, Jan could not stop himself from turning his head. Her face drew slowly into view, wearing a smile that had led many a young man to nights of sensual pleasure. Her skin was an exotic bronze, possibly the result of plentiful sunshine, her red hair spilling down her back and curling down over her face, concealing her right eye. The left eye, the colour of polished copper, sparkled lasciviously.

"Oh Jan," she purred, her voice alone enough to make his face flush. "You don't know how unutterably _manly _I find you, standing here in the presence of your magnificent creation."

"I…I must confess," Jan stammered, trying to control himself. "I did not expect you to find it so…interesting."

"Come now, Jan." Kirche gave him an indulgent look. "It's a question of scale. Those little toys back at school weren't going to impress anyone. But something like this…" Despite his best efforts, Jan found his eyes wandering down her neck, over her collarbone, down to the plunging neckline of _that _dress.

She had been carrying on like that since the moment he'd arrived. As tempting as it was to give in to her blandishments, Jan had thus far resisted. He knew her well enough to know that, while by no means a bad person, she had no long-term interest in him. It was the thrill of the chase that drew her on, the challenge of getting him to submit to her wiles. The more he resisted, he knew, the harder she would try, until someone else took her fancy.

He heard a croaking noise from beside her feet. He glanced down, glad of the distraction, to see a pair of reptilian eyes gazing up at him. Jan shivered at the sight of the great red salamander, his body low-slung and powerful, a bright flame leaping from his tail end. His name was Flame, and though he had never attacked anyone without a command from Kirche, Jan could not help but feel uncomfortable with the look it was giving him.

"Miss Zerbst," he said, managing to drag his eyes back up. "Are you by any chance with…?"

"Daughter!" The shout answered Jan's question for him, in the worst possible way.

"Your grace!" he spluttered, trying to disentangle himself as a red-haired man clad in the Germanian fashion strode up to him. "I…I was just…!"

"Daughter, oblige me by climbing _off _the professor," Margrave Benedict von Anhalt-Zerbst said waspishly. "I wish to speak with him before he begins the engine test. Go and keep our guests distracted."

"As my father wishes," Kirche sighed, separating herself from Jan. She shot him a wink and sashayed off towards the gaggle of well-dressed notables gazing up at the _Ostland_. Seeing them made Jan even more nervous.

"Your grace!" He returned his attention to the Margrave. He was tall and solidly-built, and had given his daughter her eyes as well as her hair. But whereas Kirche's eyes were warm, indulgent, inviting even, his were cold and hard. "Your grace! I hope you don't…!"

"I am well aware of my daughter's predilections, professor," the margrave replied. "I trust she has not distracted you _too _much?"

"Oh, not at all your grace!" Jan laughed nervously. "I wouldn't not dream of letting you down, not after you have been so generous!"

"Generous indeed." There was something unsettling in the margrave's tone. "Yet all you have to show for it is slightly exotic airship. Was omitting the masts entirely wise, professor?"

"I have absolute confidence in the new engine configuration," lied Jan. "It will provide the necessary power."

"Then perhaps you'll allow me to watch the test you were about to carry out."

"By all means, your grace." Jan led the margrave towards his observation tower, wondering if the Founder Brimir was punishing him for something.

If so, he had a pretty shrewd idea of what it was.

The tower was made out of scaffolding poles and wooden boards, with a ladder running up to the top. Jan was a little embarrassed to have to inflict such an indignity on a noble, but margrave Benedict proved equal to the challenge, following him up the ladder without difficulty or complaint. Once at the top, they had a clear view down onto the central engine, which would remain uncovered until the final configuration had been decided upon.

"So what exactly have you done with it, professor?" the margrave asked, gazing fixedly at the engine. Smoke was already rising from the great black chimney set into the _Ostland_'s stern.

"I decided that one piston was simply insufficient," Jan replied, warming to his work. "It could make the shaft turn, but not fast enough for our purposes." He gestured to the propeller, with its long, curved blades that would displace air and drive the _Ostland _forward. "Thus, as you can see, I have added additional pistons."

"How can that be?" the margrave asked, mildly incredulous. "How can the beams turn the shaft if they are hanging over it?"

"They can, because I have redesigned the shaft!" proclaimed Jan, almost bouncing with excitement. "Rather than a single straight shaft, I have fitted it with cams that reach out and away from the line of the shaft. Between each pair of cams is a rotating pin, which is in turn fitted to the connecting rod. Thus can the rods turn the shaft without fouling it!" He beamed like a child. "It's not dissimilar to the shaft I found in the Dragon's Cloak, but it wasn't until now that I realised why!" He suddenly realised that the margrave was giving him a dubious look.

"I cannot help but wonder," he said, cocking an eyebrow. "This _Ostland _will be yours, of course. But you must know that I will build more of them, and arm them for war. You do not find this objectionable?"

"Why should I?" Jan retorted sourly. "Doubtless you have your reasons. And I am in no position to criticize."

"You're right, I do," replied the margrave. "You do not object to these vessels being used for war, yet I know that you despise war. If not for war, then for what did you build it?"

"For what?" Jan scanned his eyes over the _Ostland _once more, his smile returning as he did.

"Why your grace, I built it to see if I could." The margrave was silent for a moment, then chuckled.

"You are a unique man, Jan Colbert."

"Thank you, your grace."

Jan waved his hand at a worker standing on the quarter deck. The man waved back, then hurried into the rear cabin. It was time for the test.

"Did you miss me, Jan?" Jan sighed as Kirche sidled up beside him, wondering how she had managed to climb the ladder without her hearing him. He heard a croak, and knew with a terrible sinking feeling that her wretched salamander had come too. The margrave paid neither his daughter nor her familiar any mind.

Jan shivered, this time with anticipation. He needed to be where he was, to see the engine work from the outside, but a part of him still wanted to be at the controls. He had told the workers what to do, and since many of them had used to work on the pumping engines they seemed to understand what he meant. But he could not help but worry.

His eyes fixed upon the row of four beams above the shaft, willing them to rise and fall. He felt a cold weight in his chest, and wondered if one of the pipes had burst, _again._

He heard a hiss of steam, and his heart leapt as the beams began to move. First the outer two, then the inner two, as he had arranged them. There was a groan of metal on metal as the propeller began to turn. One revolution, and then so very slowly another, and then another.

"It goes no faster," commented the margrave.

"A moment, your grace" Jan pleaded. "Let them build up the steam pressure." Though the engine was aimed out away from the mountains, he could feel the wind against his face. The propeller revolved again, and again, with stubborn, agonizing slowness. Jan began to wonder what they were doing down there. Were they being too cautious with the steam pressure? Or had they seen something he hadn't?

The tower creaked, and Jan could have sworn that the wind on his face was stronger than a moment ago. The propeller was indeed accelerating, spinning faster and faster, the wind buffeting the tower. Jan clutched at the handrail, almost jumping for joy as the propeller blades whirled. Within a moment they were barely visible, a shimmering circle in the air about the shaft.

"It's working!" Jan exclaimed, exultant. "It's _working_!" He barely heard the cheers and applause from the bottom of the tower. He barely noticed Kirche clinging to his arm, shouting for joy.

_Ostland _would fly.

* * *

**_County of Asterac, Kingdom of Gallia, 14__th_**_** Day of Ansuz.** _

"I really don't know why they're so upset!"

Suleiman jinked sideways. An instant later a bolt of pressurized air shot past, throwing up a cloud of dust as it struck the dirt road just ahead of him.

"I fear it may have been your singing, young master!" Majid replied, sprinting along beside him. "It might not be to their provincial tastes!"

"You think so?!" Suleiman jinked again to avoid another blast. "They didn't seem to mind the first night!"

"Audiences can be very fickle, young master!" An air blast struck the ground beside Majid, showering him in brown dust.

"Everyone's a critic!" he shouted back.

"Halt!" shrieked a nasal voice from some way behind. Suleiman glanced back, and saw that the village Mayor was leading the pursuit. His obese body was mounted on a rather put-upon-looking pony, whose rump he repeatedly struck with a riding crop in the vain hope of driving the poor beast much beyond a trot. His jowly, multi-chinned face was red with exertion, though it did little to conceal the enormous boil on his nose.

"Halt I say!" the Mayor called again. "Come back and take your punishment!"

"What punishment?!" Suleiman yelled back, dodging yet another incoming spell. "What wrong have I done?!"

"You have seduced our dutiful wives!" the Mayor roared, his words only just audible over the clatter of hooves. "And our obedient daughters!"

"My young master has done no such thing!" Majid snapped back over his shoulder.

"It's his fault!" shouted another voice, and Suleiman could see the multitude of carts and carriages emerging from the dust cloud obscuring the road behind him.

"Yes!" called another. "He has distracted my wife from me!"

"My wife never used to complain about my papules! Now she says I'm ugly!"

"My wife says I'm too fat!"

"She says I'm unromantic!"

"My daughter won't marry the fiancé I chose! She's run off to become a Mage Knight!"

It was all Suleiman could do to dodge the flurry of spells. Uncomfortable memories rose in his mind; images of gooey-eyed women of varying ages. He had thought nothing of it at the time, being too lost in the joy of his music. Besides, his half-sisters and the other women had always enjoyed his performances, and no one had objected then.

"Gentlemen!" he called, hoping against hope that his pursuers might be mollified. "I meant no offence! I had no dishonourable intentions!"

"You've cost us our dignity!" the Mayor retorted. "The commoners laugh at us! You shall suffer the tar and the feathers!"

"Tar and feathers! Tar and feathers!" chanted the others.

"Never!" Majid halted so suddenly that Suleiman ran several metres before he even realised. "You shall not take my young master!" He pulled his chakrams from his belt.

"Majid!" Suleiman cried, managing to stop and scramble back to his friend. "No violence!"

"Get him!" roared the Mayor, spurring his unhappy mount to something approximating to a gallop. Majid drew back his arms to throw. Suleiman opened his mouth to scream.

Then he was on his back, a great hot wind rolling over him like an ocean wave. He heard a roaring in his ears, and wondered for an instant if one of the enraged nobles had cast some mighty spell on him.

Dizzy, and choking on the cloud of dust, Suleiman pulled himself unsteadily to his feet. He blinked, and stared in disbelief at the crater where the road had been. All around it lay the prone forms of his tormentors, amid the smashed wreckage of their carriages and carts. The Mayor had landed just a few metres away, and while the moaning indicated that he was alive, he seemed quite unconscious.

"What...was that?"

* * *

Atop a ridge some distance away, a young girl watched as the taller of the two figures set about divesting the fallen nobles of their purses.

She was no ordinary girl, any more than the dragon on whose back she was perched was an ordinary dragon. Though her short blue hair reaching to her chin, doll-like face, and expression of permanent disinterest did not mark her as anything special, beyond being quite pretty, the tall staff in her right hand, taller in fact than she was, should have told any informed observer that she was someone of note.

And if they were not informed, the spell she had just cast should have made it quite clear.

The dragon, its scales coloured sky-blue, craned its long neck to glance at her. It made a questioning noise.

"Yes," Tabitha replied, her voice barely audible. "I liked it too."

* * *

**Well, here's the first chapter of Familiar of the Fairy. I occurred to me that my writing style is a little too heavy, so I've tried to go for a lighter, easier style in this case.**

**A couple of notes. Precisely what sort of territory Anhalt-Zerbst is was never revealed AFAIK, and the most I could find was that it is a border territory, on the basis that the plan after rescuing Tabitha and her mother from Alhambra was to cross the Gallian border into Anhalt-Zerbst then re-enter Tristain that way. Going on that, I decided to make it a margraviate. **

**Regarding the **_**Ostland**_**, even the Light Novels never went into much detail on the engines, beyond that they were steam-powered. I decided that while Colbert is a genius, it would make more sense for him to adapt an existing technology (specifically a Newcomen-style engine for mine pumping) than to invent it completely from scratch. It wouldn't be beyond him, however, to come up with a means of turning an up-and-down motion into a circular motion, or even to come up with a crankshaft. The latter he may well have found in the Zero fighter's engine. **

**Last, but by no means least, regarding Suleiman and Majid. If it wasn't obvious, Suleiman is indeed a half-elf, the full importance of which will be revealed in time. The word **_**Pari**_** he uses to refer to Elves is the Persian/Farsi word for fairy, or a magical creature. Suleiman's appearance is based on that of Loran Cehack from Turn A Gundam, while Majid's is based on Gilgamesh from Fate Stay Night, but with long black hair. **

**My thanks to Zaru for beta-reading this chapter. **


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_**Vindabona, Germanian Empire, 1st Day of Feoh, Year 6243**_

It was a clear night, with the moon high in the sky. The stars were visible, despite the glow of the streetlamps along the streets of the Neustadt.

Lothar von Lohengramm felt no fear as he hurried along. The Neustadt was the nice end of Vindabona, full of fine townhouses belonging to wealthy nobles from all over Germania, and even beyond. No mugger or pickpocket dared prowl the Neustadt's wide, well-lit streets, and even professional housebreakers treaded carefully. Any troublemaker who got past the _stadtwehr_ patrols would have the nobles' armed _dienstmänner_ to contend with, and perhaps even nobles themselves. Even in easy-going Germania, not many nobles would balk at using magic on an obvious miscreant, just for the entertainment.

Even if that were not the case, Lothar von Lohengramm would not have hesitated. He would not have been deterred had it been the darkest, scum-infested rookery, with every other man or woman ready to cut his throat for a coin in his pocket and the shirt on his back.

The person he wanted to see would not have stooped to enter such a place, let alone live there.

Lothar's heart pounded as he neared his destination, the hot blood of the Lohengramms thundering in his veins. He skidded to a less-than-dignified halt, glancing back and forward along the street. The entrance before him was a side gate, set into a tall privet hedge that shielded the house's gardens from view. It was not an entrance one of his status should be using, but it was one he had grown accustomed to.

His cheeks reddened at the thought of the last time he had used it, only a few days earlier. The afternoon he had spent within the gardens beyond had been…well, _pleasant _wasn't really the word. The days spent in the city's parks, or in the Imperial Zoo, had been _pleasant_. This had been something else, something different.

Lothar grinned as he remembered the soft grass underneath, the rustle of her dress, their shrieking giggles as they gambolled like kittens, the sparkle in her eyes as they rubbed noses.

He still hadn't quite made sense of the experience. It had made him…_think _things he had never thought before, and _feel _things he wasn't used to. He had felt truly _happy_, in a way he had never felt before.

Lother pulled the small box from his pocket and flipped it open. The ring gleamed gold, the finely-cut diamond glittering in the lamplight. It was a gift fit for a noble lady, just as he had wished. He had been right to trust old Gottfried, the butler of his family's townhouse, to select it on his behalf. The old man had a good and tactful eye for these things, and could be relied on not to spread things around.

Not that the servants had failed to notice. He had overheard their whispering and twittering about the days he had spent, and how he was surely a bit young to be giving expensive rings to young ladies. He cared for none of it.

He tried the wooden door. It was unlocked, as it had been the other day, and swung silently open on well-oiled hinges. Lothar eased himself inside, closing the door behind, and found himself in a passage between two rows of privet. This concealed way was used primarily by servants, but he knew where he was going. A few mails to the right of the door, then a left turn, and there was the opening in front of him.

He poked his head around the corner, half-hoping she would be waiting for him, as she had been that afternoon. There was no sign of her, but Lothar was not deterred. He half-crept, half-sauntered out into the garden, heading for the fountain where he had seen her last.

The hammer-blow caught him on the back of the head, knocking him to the ground. In reflex he tried to rise, but another blow struck his back, sending him crashing back down. He tried to rise again, his head swimming, but something cold and hard pressed upon him, holding him in place.

He managed to get his head up. He opened his mouth to shout at his assailants, to upbraid them for assaulting a Lohengramm, a son of the Margrave of Valachia. But the words died in his throat as he saw the massive shapes looming in front of him. He could see the pauldrons and cuirasses gleaming in the moonlight, the old-fashioned full helms hiding their faces, the tall staves in their hands. On their cuirasses was a symbol, a blazing sun atop a lightning bolt.

The Luftpanzer Ritter; the knights of Guldenhorf. That meant…

"Who intrudes at this late hour?" Lothar's heart skipped a beat as the two knights stepped aside, revealing a girl of about his own age. Her long blonde hair was done up in a pair of pigtails, and a purple cloak concealed her figure.

"Beatrice…!"

"That's _Princess_ Guldenhorf to you!" his beloved snapped back. Lothar could barely believe what he was hearing, let alone seeing. Those bright blue eyes that had sparkled with amusement and mischief were now cold and hard. There was no trace of that smile.

"That's enough, you can step back." The two knights pressing him down with their staves obeyed, allowing Lothar to pull himself to his knees. Beatrice Yvonne von Guldenhorf stepped closer, putting her hands on her hips. Her cloak drew aside, revealing a white blouse and a dark grey pleated skirt, the uniform of some exclusive school he could not recognize.

"Is there some reason why you are here?" she asked, her tone as cold as stone. Lothar remembered the ring, and his confidence returned. Surely this sudden coldness would thaw when she saw the ring he had procured for her. Surely her heart would melt when the proof of his affection was shown. After all, had he not vowed to be true? Had he not promised her?

He flipped the box open, and raised it for her to see.

Her hand caught his cheek like the blow of a warhammer. He slumped sideways, barely stopping himself with his hand. The box bumped and rolled away into the grass.

"B…Beatrice…" he stammered, unaccustomed tears pricking at his eyes.

"You _dare_!" Beatrice snarled, eyes flashing with rage. "You who hid your name from me! You, a bloodthirsty Lohengramm!"

Lothar stared up at her in utter confusion. He knew his family wasn't exactly popular among the Germanian nobility; the eastern border lords generally weren't. But he had never thought, had never believed…

"To think I thought of you as a friend," Beatrice went on, disgust dripping from every word. "I would have continued to, were it not for that little note from your father to mine, suggesting a match between us. As if the only daughter of the Grand Duke of Guldenhorf would marry into a house of brutes!"

"But…"

"No buts!" Her lip curled, and he had never seen anyone look at him with such utter contempt, as if he were not even human.

"A beast you are," she hissed, "and a beast you will ever be. Luftpanzer Ritter, toss this refuse into the street!"

* * *

_**The Royal Palace, Kingdom of Tristain, 10**__**th**__** day of Feoh**_

The gardens at the Royal Palace were some of the finest in Halkeginia. Sculpted to an artistic ideal by a landscape gardener many years earlier, they had started a trend among Royalty, nobles, and wealthy commoners alike.

At the centre of the gardens was a perfectly formed hillock, reaching out into the ornamental lake. Its sides were smooth, gentle, and covered in finely-cut grass. At its top stood an ornamental gazebo of white marble, built in a style reminiscent of ancient Romalian architecture, matching the fake ruins that dotted the landscape.

To Henrietta, Queen of Tristain, it was a place that could serve many functions. It had lent itself to some excellent gatherings, but it was also a good place for more intimate meetings. The arrangement of the trees and bushes was such that no one could get near the hillock, or the gazebo atop it, without being seen. That not only meant safety, but privacy too.

It was for both of those qualities, but primarily the latter, that she had brought her small party of guests to the gardens. There were things to be spoken-of that no one else could hear, and something revealed that no one else could see.

That something was a young girl of about her own age, by the name of Tiffania Westwood. Henrietta watched her as she knelt by the lakeside, gazing mournfully into the limpid waters. She had very long blonde hair, spilling around her shoulders and down her back. Henrietta could see her face reflected in the water; those high, elegant cheekbones, and sad blue eyes.

And the ears.

Henrietta knew that she should be afraid, angry even. Elves were the ancient enemies of humanity; they had driven Brimir's tribe from the Holy Land, and had attacked Halkeginia on many occasions. Admittedly this was as often as not in retaliation for various ill-fated attempts to retake the lost land of Brimir, but such a history of mutual recrimination and bloodshed should have made her more wary.

Others would feel that way. Most people in her place would be trying to kill Tiffania, or fleeing in terror. But they had not seen what Henrietta had seen. They had not seen Tiffania kneel before her. They had not heard the fear in her voice as she spoke, addressing her with such graceful courtesy. They had not seen the pain, and the loneliness, in those bright blue eyes.

"I'm actually a half-elf," she said. "My mother was an elf of the nomads. She was a mistress of the archduke of Albion. She told me to live quietly in the forest, and not appear in front of people."

Henrietta kept her face straight, but her mind was racing. As far as she knew, the elves only had one country of their own; the land called Nepthys in the distant Rub'al Khali. The elves of Nepthys rarely left their desert country; except on occasional raids against the Halkeginian kingdoms. It was known that some elves had chosen to leave their homeland, though for what reason no one seemed to know. They wandered the world in small groups or alone, going anywhere and everywhere, but always steering well clear of their old homeland. They often traded with humans, at least those who would not kill or flee from them on sight. On occasion they even settled among them, as some had in distant Arysia thousands of years hence.

It was long rumoured that for humans and elves to bear children together. The beautiful, sad young girl in front of her was living proof.

"That you are a half-elf matters not to me," Henrietta said, and meant it. "After all, you're the one who saved Saito."

She glanced to her left, past Tiffania to where two of her dearest friends were standing. There was Saito, in that strange blue and white jacket he called a _parka, _with Derflinger handing over his back. There was Louise de la Valliere, her childhood companion, courtier, loyal agent, and precious friend. Both were keeping a respectful but not standoffish distance, regarding Tiffania with evident sympathy.

To her right, and out of sight, stood Agnès, Chevalier de Milan, Captain of her Majesty's Regiment of Musketeers. A hard-faced, short-haired, loyal and devoted young woman, Agnes was rarely far from her side.

Henrietta remembered how gutted she had felt when she heard of Saito's 'death' near Rosais. She had heard all the platitudes, all the pious expressions, yet none had offered her much comfort. For two months she had gripped her heart in a clenched fist of steel, hiding her confused feelings. She had distanced herself, buried herself in her duties, reminded herself that she barely knew Saito, and that his was only one death among untold thousands.

In the end, besides being there for Louise, it was all she could do. If she hadn't, she might have wept and never stopped. But for Tiffania, who had saved Saito's life with some mysterious magic, her heart might have been broken a second time.

"Fear nothing, Tiffania," she said. "You are in the Kingdom of Tristain, and under my protection. You need fear nothing in these lands."

Tiffania leapt to her feet, a smile of pure joy on her face, tears welling at the corner of her eyes.

"Your majesty! Thank you very much! I…have no words to express my gratitude!"

Henrietta had the uncomfortable impression that Tiffania was about to embrace her, and hoped she would not. It wasn't that she objected personally, but she knew how Agnès would react, and Louise for that matter.

"There's no need to be so formal," she replied, giving Tiffania a smile. "We are neither in court nor in council. Here, we are meeting informally." She gestured to the gazebo. "Come, let us have tea together."

Henrietta led the small gathering up the gentle incline to the gazebo. Inside was a table, with four high-backed chairs arranged around it. A maid poured tea into the cups, then withdrew at a curt gesture from Agnès. Henrietta had a care of her servants, partly out of compassion and partly because of one of her mother's lessons; that alienating the people who did the laundry and the cooking was a bad idea. But there were certain things they were better off not hearing.

"And you also, Agnès," she spoke up, once they had all taken their seats. "Did everything go smoothly?"

Agnès stood in the gap where a fifth chair would have been positioned. She would not sit down with her Queen unless asked, and only then if alone. Henrietta was not inclined to upset her by pressing the matter.

"I feared to bother your majesty with unnecessary worries." Her tone was as hard as her face. "There was another battle."

"What happened?"

"Allow me to explain," Louise interjected. "That woman…" She paused, as if choosing her words.

"The one called Sheffield?" hazarded Henrietta. "The one who previously attacked you?"

"Yes. She wanted to know the status of the other Void user."

"The other?" Henrietta suppressed a shiver. It had been a shock, but there could be no denying that Louise was a bearer of the legendary Void element. The same royal blood that ran in Henrietta's veins, in which the Void resided, ran also in Louise's. But if the line of Tristain's Void user had appeared, and if Saito was indeed the Familiar Gandalfr, then it stood to reason that the other three had also appeared, or would soon do so.

"Yes," Louise confirmed.

"I fear the enemy has information we don't know," Agnès spoke up. "The woman Sheffield is very strong. We cannot afford to ignore her."

"Surely we must have heard of her," Henrietta insisted, surprised. "There should have been rumours among the nobles."

"I do not believe Sheffield is the only name she goes by," replied Agnès. "Nor do I believe she is of Albion, or even of Halkeginia."

"I agree with Agnès," added Louise. "Her features were…unusual."

"Unusual?" Henrietta glanced from one to the other of her guests. "In what way, unusual?"

"It is…hard to explain, your majesty," Louise said, evidently embarrassed. "But I believe that she is of another land."

"Another land?" All eyes suddenly fell on Saito.

"Uh…sorry," he said, sheepishly. "I barely know Halkeginia, let alone anywhere else."

"But she looked different, didn't she!" insisted Louise, raising her voice.

"Well…kinda," Saito admitted cautiously. "I really don't know enough to judge."

"There is further evidence, your majesty," Agnès interjected. "The weapons used by the Reconquista forces."

"Weren't the muskets traced to Varangia?" Henrietta asked, surprised.

The Albionian troops she and her Germanian allies had faced in the so-called Eight Month War had for the most part used old-fashioned equipment. Many of the infantry had fought with Albion's ancient longbows, and several towns and cities had been forced to defend themselves with ballistae and catapults in lieu of anything better. But the skirmishers who had hunted Louise and Saito in the snowy mountains around Saxe-Gotha had been armed with the latest flintlock muskets. Some of them had been looted by her troops, and all who saw them agreed they were of Varangian make.

"They were, your majesty. I am referring to the cannons found in the wreckage of the _Lexington, _and other Reconquista warships."

"I read the report, Agnès," she said gravely. "Even the Germanian gunsmiths could not work out how they were made."

"They were made using metallurgical techniques unknown in Halkeginia," Agnès went on, for the benefit of the others. "They insisted that nothing like them had come out of Varangia either. Their only explanation was that they had come from the Rub'al Khali."

"That must be it!" Louise insisted. "She must be from the Rub'al Khali. She must've given them that knowledge."

"You may be right," Henrietta allowed. She glanced around her guests again. Louise's eyes were bright and alert, but Saito seemed disinterested, while Tiffania looked thoroughly bewildered. It was time to change the subject.

"In any case, Agnès, please be on alert lest she try again."

"Yes, your majesty."

"And now, another matter." Henrietta beamed as she turned her attention to Saito. "Saito, Agnès tells me you fought most bravely in Louise's defence."

"Uh…well…" Saito blushed, ever the modest hero.

"I'm sure," Henrietta pressed, "you'll have no objection to accepting the title of Chevalier."

Saito looked momentarily stunned, then rose to his feet.

"Yes, your majesty!"

* * *

_**Caen, Kingdom of Gallia, 12**__**th**__** Day of Feoh**_

Hugh de Montfort was getting restless.

Bad enough that he was he was stuck in a Gallian port town, with only a couple of Varangians to back him up. Bad enough that if the authorities found the person unconscious on the bed, the best he could hope for was to die while resisting arrest. All that he could cope with, at least for a while.

No, it was the waiting. It was being stuck in the upper room of a dingy tavern, with nowhere to hide his human burden, waiting for his local contact to get back with the passport. Caen, like every port in Gallia, was under lockdown as a result of his actions a few days earlier. He had half-hoped to grab the target and outrun the order, but whereas he and his companions were on horseback, the messengers were riding dragons.

He had planned for it, of course. He had selected the safe-house well in advance, and ensured that his contacts were ready. He hadn't survived as long as he had in this game by leaving things to chance.

From his vantage point by the window, Hugh had a limited but worthwhile view of the narrow street below. The evening throng had drained to a trickle, and by now only the occasional night watchman or city guard patrol could be seen. His contact had not yet returned.

He glared with his one good eye across the room, dimly lit by a guttering candle on the bedside table.. Roald, one of his companions, sat on the floor at the end of the bed, back braced against the wall. His eyes appeared closed, but Hugh knew he was keeping a close watch on the young man lying on the bed.

A few weeks ago he, Nicholas de Montmirail, had been a rising star; a square-class mage in his teens and a scholar beyond compare at the university at Lutece, a glittering career ahead of him. A few days ago he had been a dead man, the defendant in a trial for which the Church would tolerate only one outcome. Had Hugh not made his move when he did, taking advantage of a convenient student riot, Nicholas would be ash and bones in the river.

"_He had better be worth it,_" Hugh thought. This had to be his worst mission since he had arrived in Varangia, a bedraggled refugee fleeing the fall of the Reconquista regime.

He did not like to think about those times. He did not want to remember what he had done, what he had lost, in the name of Reconquista. He had believed, back then. He had served, and fought, and bled, and killed. He had given his eye, his blood, his honour, and even his self-respect. All for God and the Founder. All for the promise of a holy crusade, of a golden century. All for the man who had been like a father, and a better one than the man who had scorned him and sent him to Tristain.

All for nothing.

Hugh drove the thoughts away. Now wasn't the time. He couldn't afford distractions, not now.

The door clunked open, and the other of his companions walked in. He was blond, with dark blue eyes and a square, solid-looking face. Hugh sighed inwardly.

"What is it, Arik?"

"Where the hell's that contact of yours? I don't like hanging around when they're looking for us."

To a noble like Hugh, Arik's words sounded like a particularly horrific mangling of Old Runic, the language of Brimir's tribe and the _lingua franca _of the guardian kingdoms. Hugh was no scholar, but he guessed from the old stories that the Varangians must have learnt that language thousands of years ago, when Brimir's tribe of mages had conquered Halkeginia and subjected its peoples.

"I don't know where he is," Hugh replied sourly. Varangian sounded barbaric, but a childhood spent learning Old Runic and several months in Grypsborg had been enough to get his head around it. "But we probably won't be seeing him tonight. It's past curfew."

"_Skreyja_!" Arik cursed. "He'll get us all killed!" Roald opened one eye to glance at Arik, but did not move.

"Calm yourself!" Hugh snapped back, rising to his feet despite the pain in his left foot. "If we have to wait till morning, we wait till morning. Either way we'll not leave this city without those documents!"

"How do you know he can get the papers?!" the blond myrmidon demanded. "How do you know he hasn't had his gut slit for the coin in his purse?! How do you know he wasn't caught by the guards!"

"I _don't _know!" Hugh growled, on the verge of losing his temper. "But there's nothing we can do about it! If he hasn't come back by morning, I'll go myself!"

"If he hasn't turned us in!" Arik jabbed a finger at the sleeping Nicholas. "The church'll pay good money to have him back!"

"Of course they will." Hugh gave Arik a smirk. "They've had fools made of them at their own party. Not thinking of turning him in yourself, are you?"

"You think I'm stupid?!" Arik snarled. "They'd burn me on the same pyre! Besides, I'd rather die than betray my King!"

Hugh sighed. He saw the fervour in Arik's eyes. It had burned in his own heart once, though it seemed like a lifetime ago.

"Your King," he replied, "is my employer. And _I'm _in charge of this mission. So we wait."

Arik opened his mouth to retort, but the sound of footsteps on the stairs silenced him.

"Noble guests!" called the tavern keeper's voice from the stairway. "You must…!"

His voice became a wet croak, followed a heavy thump. Roald was on his feet in an instant, sword in hand. Arik drew his own weapon, and the door disintegrated in a shower of splinters. The sound woke Nicholas, and his bleary eyes bulged in terror as he saw what stood in the doorway.

The gargoyle was a monstrosity, something not of the natural world. Its shape was broadly human but hunched over, its heavily-muscled legs ending in cloven hooves. Leathery wings hung from its back, and a horned, goat-like head sat on a neck as thick as a tree trunk. Its skin was a dark grey-green, a magic rune glowing bright purple in the centre of its chest.

Hugh had seen it before.

The gargoyle was moving, advancing though the falling splinters, a heavy falchion gripped in its claw-fingered right hand. Hugh snapped up his pistol and pulled the trigger. The weapon fired with a crack, the ball catching the gargoyle full in the chest. The beast tottered back, black blood splattering over the walls and floor. Arik thrust with his sword, the broad blade sliding into the wound with a wet crunch. The gargoyle roared in pain and slumped back.

But another gargoyle was behind it, swinging its identical falchion at Arik. The Varangian had to leap back to avoid the blade, and the gargoyle barrelled into the room. Roald lunged, but the gargoyle swung its heavy swing, catching him and throwing him against the wall. Nicholas cowered against the headboard, screaming in blind terror. Hugh wished he hadn't taken the boy's wand as a precaution. Without it, all his power was for nothing.

As Arik went on the attack, Hugh drew his rapier and pointed it at the gargoyle. The long, narrow blade glowed blue, the air coiling and whistling around it as he focussed his power. He thrust the rapier forward, sending a blast of pressurized air into the unsuspecting gargoyle. The gargoyle roared as it was flung back, crashing into the door frame and flying out into the corridor. Splinters flew everywhere as the door frame disintegrated, along with much of the wall around it. Hugh thought for a moment that the roof might cave in.

"Temper, temper," admonished a female voice from the darkness. "No need to wreck the place on my account."

A shape stepped over the prone gargoyle and into the light. The candle had blown out, so only the moonlight through the window illuminated her. Her figure was slim, clad in black, the skin of her exposed legs and hands a deathly pale. Her face was partially hidden by a hood, but Hugh could see the smile on those painted lips.

He knew that smile.

"Secretary Sheffield," he growled, gritting his teeth as hatred welled up inside him.

"Hugh de Montfort," the woman replied. She lowered her hood to reveal a narrow, exotic face with skin as pale as her hands, topped with long black hair that shone as if oiled. Her purple eyes were lined with black, the paint reaching down her cheeks in long, tapering spurs. She had always put Hugh in mind of a raptor on the wing, and never more so than that moment.

"What're you doing here?!" he demanded, pointing his rapier at her.

"Now, now." Her voice was languid and sensuous. "I'm not here to kill you, or your young friend over there." Sheffield glanced at Nicholas, who was staring at her as if she had just sprouted horns. "Nor am I here to take him back."

"You aren't?" Nicholas asked, his voice hoarse from screaming.

"Like I'd believe that," Hugh snarled. "If you know who he is, you'll know how badly the church wants him." To his surprise, Sheffield laughed.

"I care nothing for the church's feelings," she said. "Neither does my master. I'm here at his order, to ensure that you all escape safely."

Hugh was so surprised he couldn't speak. Sheffield's smile widened at his discomfiture.

"Surprised?" she asked. "Don't be. My master has his reasons for denying the Pope his prisoner."

"Your master," Hugh said darkly, "wouldn't happen to be King Joseph, would he?" He cocked an eyebrow. Sheffield smiled again.

"And I thought you were as brainless as you were graceless," she said, with what sounded like pride. "Disillusionment has done you the world of good."

It was all Hugh could do not to gut Sheffield where she stood. It had been a lie, a trick, some stratagem by the King of Gallia for a purpose he would probably never know, and had probably ceased to be relevant long ago.

"Why does the King of Gallia," asked Roald, his voice low and deep, "want a convicted heretic to escape the church's wrath?"

"Why does the King of Varangia _want_ a convicted heretic?" retorted Sheffield lightly. "That he's a Square-class would more than explain it, but my master believes there's something more. It suits him to…let things play out."

"Fine," Hugh growled. "If you want to help us, why did you come here? Why kill Claude like that?"

"Was that his name?" Sheffield glanced down the stairs. "I did it to spare him a most unpleasant fate. Your contact got himself caught by the city guard an hour ago. He's currently in the citadel being questioned, thought I doubt he'll occupy the governor's torturers for long. So I brought you this." She drew a folded sheet of paper from under her cloak. Hugh could see the red wax seal on it.

"A passport," Sheffield said. "This one will get you on any ship in the harbour. I suggest you head down their immediately."

Hugh gritted his teeth. The thought of accepting her help, of being _beholden _to her, was unbearable. But he was truly out of options.

"Come and take it, Hugh," Sheffield said, narrowing her eyes. "Or was sparing your life a wasted effort?"

Hating himself, Hugh limped towards her, his left boot clunking on the floor. She had done it deliberately, he knew, but it was pointless now.

"There," she said, as he took the passport from her hand. "Now if you'll excuse me." She turned on her heel and headed for the stairs.

"Sheffield!" Hugh barked. She paused.

"What is it, Hugh?"

"What was Reconquista?" he demanded. He knew it was irrational, pathetic even, to ask her such a question. But he _had _to know. "Was it Cromwell's dream? Or yours?" Sheffield sighed.

"I meant it as a kindness," she said, with a curiously world-weary air. "I gave that pathetic man his dream." She half-turned to glance at him, and Hugh saw the raptor in her eyes again.

"And unlike you, he didn't live long enough to realise that he'd lost it."

* * *

_**Lutece, Kingdom of Gallia, 17th Day of Feoh**_

There were not many cities like Lutece.

None in all of Halkeginia could match it for size, or magnificence. Some five hundred-thousand men, women, and children lived within its sprawling limits, reaching over several kilometres either side of the Shire river. Warehouses and docks crowded along the riverside, storing and transferring the river trade that made up a significant proportion of the city's not inconsiderable income. Magnificent bridges spanned the wide river at regular intervals, masterfully constructed to as to let the river boats and barges pass effortlessly beneath them.

The city had been extensively remodelled during the reign of King Joseph's father. The ramshackle rookeries had been burned and built over, condemning their inhabitants to seek shelter elsewhere or else wait in crowded camps around the city. The sewers, first installed in the days of Julio Cesare, were repaired and expanded. New buildings of brick, stone, and marble had replaced the wood, wattle and daub that had gone before. Narrow alleys had been widened and equipped with pavements, ostensibly for their beautification, but also to make it harder for rebellious citizens to barricade them. The main streets had been widened into long, broad boulevards, lined with trees and statues. These connected all the main buildings and quarters of the city, as well as providing a fine venue for religious and civic processions, and even the newly fashionable military parades.

But on this particular night, the city was more magnificent, and more vibrant, than at any other time of the year. Merry chaos reigned amid music and dancing. Every fountain flowed with wine of every colour known, and well before midnight were strewn with paralytic revellers. Nobles and commoners revelled alike, barely knowing each other for their masks and costumes. Every street was a riot of colour and a cacophony of joy.

Not that any of this impressed Majid. The city was not bad by Halkeginian standards, at least in the daylight, but it still could not compare to the glory of Bezelsalem, or Tehdad, or Damashc. At least the streets were well-paved, which was more than could be said for some of the places he and his young master had passed through.

It was the debauchery all around him that truly got on his nerves. Rich and poor alike had squandered their wealth on sumptuous costumes and masks, all for the purpose of cavorting in the streets, throwing dignity and propriety to the wind. He had watched in disbelief and disgust as they stuffed their mouths with food, and poured liquor down their throats as if it were water, the object in both cases seeming to be to get as much on themselves as within.

The second-worst part was that his young master seemed to be loving every minute of it. He had actually enjoyed wandering from tavern to wine shop to drinking pit, regaling the revellers with music they were too inebriated to possibly appreciate. Worse, they found the bawdy folk songs of Gallia and Romalia far more entertaining than anything Arysian he had sung for them.

But even that, even all that, could not compare to the desecration inflicted on his ears.

"Majid!" Suleiman called, his voice slurring noticeably. "Why the long face?"

"Long face, young master?"

"Come on Majid!" Suleiman swigged from a bottle of Cyras-knew-what he had acquired at their last venue. "It's carnival night! Try smiling!"

"I am smiling." And this was true, strictly-speaking. His current facial expression was about as close to a smile as it had ever been.

"Come now Majid!" Suleiman proclaimed fulsomely. "It's a glorious night! And those ears make you look distinguished!"

Majid shuddered. It wasn't enough that his young master had insisted on exposing his ears during the festivities. He had _somehow _been talked into letting some hack of a mage alter his own ears to match. It wasn't painful as such, and the mage had assured him that his ears would return to normal by morning. But he couldn't seem to forget that they were there, and it seemed like every other person they encountered was staring at them.

A strange whooping cry shocked Majid out of his funk. He turned to see a group of richly-dressed revellers pointing at them.

"Oooh look! Elves!"

"Elves are in the city!"

"Oh save me, _save me_!"

Majid's hand dropped to his chakrams, and froze there as the obviously inebriated partygoers burst into peals of laughter. Suleiman was laughing too.

"Fear not, fair maiden!" proclaimed one of the revellers, an aristocrat from the look of him, wearing an oversized hat with several very large feathers sticking out of it. "I shall unleash the power of my mighty wand!" He reached under his cloak, and with a flourish swept out a very long sausage. His companions fell about laughing. Majid was resisting the urge to grab the indecent food item and bludgeon the infuriating sot to death with it. He wasn't entirely sure _how _he would do this, but he was certain it would come to him.

He was about to give it a try, when Suleiman suddenly pushed his half-empty liquor bottle into his hands.

"Flee puny humans!" he exclaimed, raising his hands in a series of bizarre gestures. "Flee before the power of the Elves! Fear the thunder and the wind!"

He let loose a particularly long and loud burp. The revellers laughed even louder, some of them rolling on the ground. Suleiman beamed, evidently enjoying himself.

"Young master!" Majid snarled, on the verge of losing his temper. The sight of his young master clowning around in the street, for the benefit of a pack of reprobates, was enough to make his blood boil.

"Oh lighten up Majid!" Suleiman slurred, with just an edge of irritation, taking back his bottle. "We never get to…" he hiccupped, "loosen up any!"

"It's the troubadour!"

The exclamation took both of them by surprise. It had not come from Suleiman's erstwhile audience, for they had wandered off. Both looked, and saw that it had come from a young girl standing close by. She looked to be about Suleiman's age, with long blue hair and turquoise eyes. Her shapely body was clad in a gown bedecked with ribbons and lace, much like what the other female revellers were wearing, and she held a blue dragon mask in her hand.

"Kyui!" the girl proclaimed.

"Young _lady_!" Suleiman's face split into a drunken grin as he bowed rather unsteadily. The girl giggled, but not with the amused contempt Majid would have expected. Despite her appearance, there was something distinctly innocent about her, almost childlike.

"What do you want?" he demanded, regarding her coldly. "Can't you see we're having a conversation?"

"You're not having a conversation!" the girl retorted, smiling too much. "You're yelling at him!"

"It's…!" Majid was so surprised that his words failed him. "It's none of your business!"

"Yes it is!" the girl replied, still smiling.

"No it isn't!" Majid snapped back.

"Yes it is!" Suleiman interjected, eyeing her with evident pleasure.

"No it isn't!"

"Yes it is!" The girl slid her arm through Suleiman's own. "I'm Irukuku! My big sister wants to say hello! And she wants you to play nice music, so Irukuku can sing _pretty _songs!" She winked at him, and Suleiman had a vision of paradise.

"He's not going anywhere with _you_!" Majid snapped, grabbing Suleiman's other arm. She was obviously nothing but trouble.

"Yes he is!" Irukuku insisted, pulling on his arm. "Big sister sent Irukuku to get him!"

"Let go of him!" Majid roared. He pulled, but to his surprise the girl's grip did not slacken. She was stronger than she looked.

"You let go!" the girl retorted, pouting in annoyance as she pulled.

"Ah-hah, Majid!" Suleiman laughed as his old friend and a cute girl pulled him back and forth. "Come on! No reason to fight!"

"Unhand my young master!" Majid barked. "Naughty lady of the night!"

"Let go of big sister's troubadour!" Majid could've sworn that Irukuku's canines were growing longer. "Big meanie!"

* * *

_**The Magic Academy, Kingdom of Tristain, **__**17th Day of Feoh**_

All was quiet.

Or rather about as quiet as a place the size of Tristain Magic Academy could ever be. The students and faculty had long since retired to their rooms, but the servants would not do so for at least another hour. The maids performed their final rounds of the classrooms, laboratories, offices, and common rooms, ensuring that all was clean and in order. Down below stairs, the kitchen staff finished scouring the remnants of the evening meal from the cooking pots and crockery, while others stoked the great ovens with coal, ready for them to be lit the next morning.

But for the occasional maid, the corridors and gardens of the academy were deserted. As such, no one noticed the two cloaked figures hurrying from shadow to shadow.

"Keep up!" hissed the one in front. "Don't let anyone see you!"

"Yes!"

Both came to a halt, pressing their backs against the cold stones as they approached their final destination. The one in front, also the shorter of the two, poked her head around the corner.

"Miss Louise," the taller figure behind whispered nervously. "Are you sure this is all right?"

"What're you babbling about?" the shorter girl hissed. "Of course it's all right!"

"But then why are we…?"

"Come on!" The shorter girl grabbed her companion's hand and pulled. The taller girl squeaked in surprise, holding down her hat with her other hand as they hurried along the wall, coming to a halt by a wooden door. The shorter girl rapped a quick tattoo, and a hatch slid open at eye height. A pair of eyes glanced out at them, then the hatch slid shut and the door opened.

"Ah!" the shorter girl breathed, as the door was closed behind her. "We made it."

"Isn't Master Saito coming?" asked the maid, as she locked the door.

"No, Siesta, he isn't!" replied Louise la Blanc de la Valliere tersely. "We don't need _him _interfering!"

"But why would Mister Saito interfere?" Tiffania cocked her head, seemingly confused by her words. "I thought we weren't doing anything wrong."

"We aren't!" Louise gritted her teeth, trying to regain her composure.

She ought not to get angry. It wasn't appropriate for a noble, especially not one of her high birth, to lose her temper over someone who wasn't even _trying _to annoy her. But just about everything about Tiffania Westwood seemed to have been maliciously calculated to drive her to distraction. It wasn't that she was taller, by a considerable margin. It wasn't that long blonde hair, or that snow-white complexion, or the permanent look of guileless, child-like innocence in her bright blue eyes. It wasn't those perfectly-proportioned hips, those long legs. It wasn't even that Saito couldn't seem to keep his eyes, or his hands, off her for more than five minutes.

Louise wanted to scream. She could match that girl in every particular. Where Tiffania was tall, she was petite. Where her hair was blonde and straight, Louise's was an exotic pink and rather curly, but just as soft. Where Tiffania's eyes were a pretty blue, hers were an alluring purple inherited from her mother. Yes, she had something to offer for anything that girl could.

Except those…_things. _Those oversized…indecent…buxomly bouncing…

"I'm so grateful, Miss Louise," Tiffania said. There was something in her tone, something sincere, that eased Louise's anger. "It's so kind of you to help me like this."

" I…" Louise stammered, mastering herself. "It's really nothing at all, _Tiffania. _Think nothing of it!"

"It would be so wonderful to have my own familiar." Tiffania clasped her hands over her chest, closing her eyes as if to better visualise her wish. "I've only just arrived, but I can see how happy everyone is with their familiars. They love each other so much."

"Well…yes, _of course_!" Louise tried to sound fulsome and wise. "To receive your familiar is…a _very _important step on your road to becoming an excellent mage!"

"_And in getting away from_ my _familiar, you damn over-endowed half-elf!_" she thought, resisting the urge to smile villainously.

"After all, you and Mister Saito," Tiffania went on. "You have such a loving bond."

Louise gaped like a fish, the words catching in her throat. Siesta doubled over, screeching with laughter. Tiffania looked from one to the other, bewildered at their reactions.

"Miss Louise…"

"I do _not _have a loving bond with that _dog_!" Louise shrieked, her anger inflamed by Siesta's laughter. "He's a lecherous _beast _who tries constantly to debauch me! And when he's not doing that, he's cavorting with the _maid_!" She jabbed finger at the guffawing Siesta. "And her Majesty! And Tabitha! And that Zerbst woman! And…!"

She ran out of breath, and her tirade came to a halt. Saito had always been a libidinous wretch, but ever since returning from Albion he had gotten worse and worse. He was carrying on as if she were not his master, but his _wife. _

It wasn't that the prospect didn't appeal, in either context. But she would be a lot more enthusiastic if he would stop provoking her all the time. She could never be quite sure whether he chased those other women because he desired them over her, or because he just couldn't control himself, or because he got some bizarre pleasure from driving her to distraction.

Louise mastered herself, her pleasure returning as she remembered her intent. In a few short hours, if even that, her latest competitor would be out of the running, perhaps for good.

She was taking a risk; a big risk. For a first year student to summon a familiar was no unheard-of, but was against both tradition and the rules of the academy. Tiffania knew nothing of this, and Headmaster Osman was both generous _and _a colossal pervert, so she had nothing to worry about. Louise on the other hand…

She drove the thoughts away. She was Louise Francoise la blanc de la Valliere, daughter of a Royal Duke, with the blood of Kings and the Founder Brimir in her veins. She was a bearer of the legendary Void, by dint of that sacred inheritance. Nobles such as herself did not bow to petty rules, or fear punishment.

"Anyway, come on!" she hissed, turning on her heel and heading for the stairs. "Quickly, before someone sees us!"

* * *

_**The Magic Academy, Kingdom of Tristain, **__**17th Day of Feoh**_

"Slattern!"

"Big bully!"

Suleiman watched as Majid and that rather attractive young lady continued their verbal bust-up. Majid roared and ranted, fists clenched at his sides, while Irukuku stamped and shrieked like a little girl. A small crowd of revellers had gathered to watch the entertainment, laughing and catcalling, mostly on Irukuku's side.

"Silence you stupid girl!"

"No! You got booze on Irukuku's pretty dress that big sister bought! You're a big meanie!"

Suleiman sighed. It had been fun at first, but the booze was starting to wear off. Besides, though he loved Majid like a brother, he wouldn't have spilt his drink all over Irukuku's delightful outfit if he hadn't been pulling so hard.

"I ought to put you over my knee!"

"Just you try! Big sister will turn you into a nematode!"

"What in the name of Cyras is a nematode?!"

"Irukuku doesn't know, but she'll turn you into one!"

Suleiman sighed again, and decided the time had come to stop the confrontation. He stood up, willing his drink-addled mind to think of something to say.

Then he saw it.

It was just hovering there, in the alley opposite. With their attention focussed on Majid and Irukuku, no one seemed to have noticed it.

Curious, and glad of an excuse not to deal with those two, Suleiman headed towards it. His head felt as if it were stuffed with Damascene wool, and his gait was unsteady, but he managed to stagger into the alley. He blinked, and rubbed his eyes.

It was still there, hovering in mid-air in front of him. A circle surrounded a pentagon, which in turn contained a pentagram, glowing with unnatural light. Curious, made unwary by drink, Suleiman reached out to touch it.

All at once he was moving, falling through utter darkness. For an instant Suleiman's heart froze in blind terror. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

There was a crack, and the darkness fled, replaced by white smoke. Suleiman felt himself hit something, which fell to the ground with a thump. He landed on top of it, something warm and soft.

And then he was still.

For a few moments, Suleiman could not think. His mind was a blank, and he could not see or move. As his thoughts began to clear, he wondered what had happened.

"This is…my familiar?" said a voice from very close by.

He looked up, his blurring vision focussing to show a young woman's face. She had hair the colour of fresh straw, bright blue eyes, and skin the colour of milk. Despite his inebriation, he registered the pointed ears reaching out from her golden hair, and the expression of mild astonishment. His face felt very warm and comfortable, as if it were nestled between two soft pillows. A quick glance down confirmed what his addled mind was trying to tell him.

"Am I in paradise?" he slurred. He could not have imagined seeing anything so beautiful in any other place.

"Oh fie!" Another voice drew his attention upward and to his left. He saw a young girl with very long pink hair, little more than a child to judge by her figure, gazing down at him with a look of undisguised contempt. "Tiffania! You've summoned a drunkard for your familiar!"

"I'm sorry!" the girl upon whom Suleiman lay replied. Her voice was very high-pitched, but Suleiman could not quite understand what they were saying. It sounded like Gallian, but his grasp of the language was still limited.

"Oh but never mind!" the pink-haired girl went on, suddenly enthusiastic. "Kiss him and complete the ritual! Quickly before someone comes!"

"Oh, all right." Suleimen felt two warm, soft hands cup his cheeks. A moment later he was looking straight into that angelic face.

"My name is Tiffania Westwood." Her voice was soft and gentle. "Pentagon that rules the Five Powers, bless this humble being and make him my familiar." She leaned in close.

And in the instant before he fell unconscious, Suleiman tasted paradise.

* * *

**Finally done. With Mahou Ashikabi Negima on hold for the moment, I decided to spend some time on this. There was a further delay due to some reorganization I did on the previous chapters. The only note I want to add for the moment is that Hugh is indeed that one-eyed dragon knight Saito briefly fought in the prologue. **


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

_**The Magic Academy, Kingdom of Tristain, **__**18th Day of Feoh**_

Suleiman could hear the voices. They were distant, faded, as if he were listening through a very heavy door.

"…ing like that!"

"…since we…"

"…smells like…"

He could feel himself waking up, the voices becoming clearer.

Then it hit him.

A long, low moan erupted from his dry, foul-tasting mouth. His head felt as if some malignant spirit was remodelling the interior with a sledgehammer.

"Ah!" proclaimed a voice from his left, the sound reverberating between his ears and making his headache even worse. "The kraken wakes!"

"That's pretty mean, Louise," admonished another voice. This one was deeper, more masculine, than the one before.

"Miss Louise!" wailed another female voice. "He's suffering!"

"He's hung-over!" retorted the first voice, apparently unimpressed. "_Really_ Tiffania! Summoning a drunkard for your familiar!"

"And who are you to criticize?" demanded the male voice. "You're the one who talked her into summoning him!"

Suleiman's eyes fluttered open. He could see the figures standing nearby; two were blurs of white and grey, the other of blue. He tried to rise, opening his mouth to speak, but only a dry croaking came out.

"No don't!" exclaimed a high-pitched voice. One of the blurs was upon him in a flash, pressing him back down with hands as soft as silk. "Don't try to get up! Oh you poor thing!"

As his vision cleared, Suleiman forgot the pain in his head. He was spellbound by the face looking down at him, the face of the angel that had drawn him through the portal.

The portal…

"Let that be a lesson to you!" barked the other female voice, the sounds reverberating inside his head like the blows of a hammer . Suleiman turned his aching head, and saw the same pink-haired girl he had seen before, staring down at him with a look of undisguised contempt. "You must amend your drunkenness!"

"Uh, Louise," interjected the male voice. "Don't we have something more important to ask him?"

Suleiman finally saw the source of that voice. It was a young man of about his own age, with black hair and skin noticeably darker than that of the two young women. His face reminded Suleiman of the horse nomads who inhabited the northern steppes. He was also dressed differently; whereas the two girls wore buttoned white shirts and dark grey pleated skirts, the boy wore a long-sleeved blue and white coat reaching to his waist.

"Yes Saito, we do." The pink-haired girl, who was apparently named Louise, loomed over Suleiman. "Who and _what _are you?"

Suleiman tried to answer, but his throat betrayed him once again, and his throbbing head could not seem to fashion the words.

"Damn your wine-sodden eyes!" the girl cursed. "Where is Siesta with that pick-me-up?!"

"Here, Miss Valliere!" The door opened to admit a black-haired young woman with a cheery disposition. She wore a black dress, covered by a long white apron, while a white hairband crowned her head. Balanced effortlessly on one hand was a silver tray, upon which sat a glass full of a dubious-looking substance. Suleiman could see where this was going, and he wasn't sure he liked the idea.

"At last!" Louise sneered. "Administer it at once!"

"Miss Louise, are you sure about this?" pleaded the angel named Tiffania, looking nervously at the glass. "Is it safe to drink?"

"Fear nothing, Miss Westwood!" Siesta proclaimed cheerfully. "This will have the young master up and about before you know it!" She held out the tray to Suleiman, an expectant look on her face. It took Suleiman's addled brain a few moments to realise what was expected of him. Reasoning that it couldn't be worse than the current state of his head, Suleiman took the glass in an unsteady hand and downed it in one swallow.

His eyes bulged as his throat erupted in pain, burning as if he had swallowed powdered ginger.

"Gah!" he bellowed. "Are you trying to poison me?!"

"Is young master feeling better now?" the maid asked, beaming.

Suleiman was about to tell her just what he thought of her pick-me-up, when he realised that the dull fog clouding his mind was gone. The pain in his head had receded, but a strange itching, almost stinging sensation in his chest remained.

"It worked…" he said, blinking as he took in his surroundings. The walls were whitewashed, with wainscots of dark wood decorated with rose carvings. There were two wardrobes, a dresser, and a table and chairs, all made of the same wood. He was lying in a large four-poster bed, the curtains tied back.

A horrible thought occurred. Suleiman glanced frantically around the room, panic rising in his chest. His eyes fell on the table, and a familiar-looking bundle lying on it. The girls cried out in surprise as he leapt from the bed and darted to the table. Sure enough it was his pack, the head of his sitar poking out of the top as it always did. Dreading what he might find inside, Suleiman tore the pack open.

The panic faded. His beloved sitar was intact. So relieved was he, that he barely noticed the red-scabbarded scimitar lying on the table next to it. As important as the sword was, it could not compare to his sitar.

"Is everything okay?" the boy named Saito asked, sounding a little worried. "I promise we didn't touch anything."

"It's all right," Suleiman said, feeling his heart slow. "I was afraid it was damaged." He turned to face them, his eyes falling upon Tiffania. There was something so very captivating about those enormous blue eyes, and that look of almost maternal tenderness. It reminded him of a time long past, when all was gentle, and there was nothing to fear.

It was only then that he noticed the enormous white hat covering most of her head. It was strange to see, for Suleiman was quite sure he had seen her without it.

Yes, he _had_ seen her without it. That night, when he had fallen through that strange…whatever-it-was. He remembered seeing it in the street, while Majid was…

"Majid!" he exclaimed, his heart clenching as he realised. "Where is Majid?!"

"Who?!" Saito asked, taken by surprise. "Hey, slow down a minute!"

"Majid!" Suleiman was in a blind panic. He grabbed his boots, which were standing by the dresser, and began to pull them on. "I have to find Majid!"

"You're going nowhere!" Louise swept around the table to stand between him and the door. "A Familiar can't just up and leave his master!"

"Familiar?!" Suleiman was incredulous. "Master?! What're you talking about?!"

"Tiffania summoned you!" Louise barked, jabbing her finger at Tiffania. "Therefore you are her Familiar! Even a half-elf like you should understand that!"

A cold shard ran through Suleiman's heart. His hands flew to his exposed ears, though his secret was already out.

"You don't understand!" he pleaded, pulling the strip of cloth from his pocket, where it had mercifully remained, and began to tie his ears back. "I have to find Majid!"

"No, _you _don't understand!" Louise stormed over to Saito and grabbed his left hand. Ignoring his shout of protest, she held the hand up. Suleiman could see the strange signs carved into it.

"These runes mark Saito as my Familiar!" Louise explained, full of noble hauteur. "The runes on your chest mark you as Tiffania's Familiar! Look for yourself if you don't believe me!"

Suleiman unfastened his jacket, a cold knife twisting in his gut. He pulled his shirt open and, sure enough, there were those same signs.

"This is…"

"You see," Louise said. "Now, no more of this leaving nonsense."

"Louise!" Saito snapped. "We can't force him to stay! Not if he needs to find someone!"

"What do you mean?!" Louise shrieked, rounding on him. "He's Tiffania's Familiar! This is where he belongs!"

Suleiman did not hear their argument. He was staring down at the runes, at the marks carved into his living flesh as if it were marble.

He was marked, branded. They were the stigmata of his mistake, a permanent reminder of his folly. Now, once and for all, he knew the price of incaution.

If he tried to leave, would they let him? Would the fact that he was a reasoning, feeling person matter in the slightest? And even if he could fight his way out, could he hope to find Majid? Was his faithful servant, his _friend_, even alive?

Would he want to be with him any more, after being abandoned like that?

His shoulders slumped. He shuddered, his breath catching as a lump rose in his throat.

"It's all right," said an angelic voice. "Please don't cry."

Suleiman opened his mouth to deny it, then felt the tears on his face. He looked up, and saw Tiffania's gentle smile.

"There's nothing to fear. You see…" Tiffania took off her hat, and Suleiman's heart skipped a beat as he saw her ears, the same ears he saw every time he looked in a mirror.

The ears he had seen that night.

"Yeah, about that," Saito said awkwardly, massaging the back of his head.

"I never thought it would happen." Tiffania's smile was pure and bright, and Suleiman could have sworn there were tears in her eyes. "I never thought I'd meet another…like me."

"_Another?_" Suleiman thought. "_Are half-Elves so rare in these lands?_"

His eyes fell on hers, and it was as if her soul was reaching to him, drawing him in. He could not move, let alone resist, as Tiffania stepped forward to enfold him in her arms.

"It's all right." Her voice was sweet music, so close to his ear. "I'll take care of you. I'll help you find your friend."

Suleiman wanted to say something. He wanted to impress her, to thank her, to show her the grace he'd been raised to. But no words would come. He could only relax into her embrace, sliding his arms around her slim waist to press her closer.

He did not see the triumphant looks Louise and Siesta were giving him.

* * *

_**Grand Troyes Palace, Lutece, Kingdom of Gallia**_

"Just when I thought you couldn't be any more useless, Charlotte, you find yet another way to disappoint me."

Isabella, Princess of Gallia, leader of the Knights of the North Parterre, was not in the best of moods. She had spent a thoroughly dull morning sifting through fragments of so-called intelligence, much of it quite worthless, and answering yet another whining message from the Papal Legate over the recent de Montmirail debacle. She had half-hoped that the prank she had cooked up would raise her spirits a little. The effect had infuriatingly brief.

It was all Isabella could do to keep her lip from curling as she stared at the _object _in front of her. She just stood there, wearing nothing but her damp and stained chemise, manure dripping off her onto the carpet. Her face was its usual emotionless mask, the one that infuriated her so. Her blue eyes were cold and lifeless, like those of a doll.

A doll. A living, walking, talking _doll. _That was all she was. That was all she could be.

It was _infuriating._

"It was a simple mission, Charlotte. All you had to do was find the Arysian and bring him back here. But you couldn't even do _that _for me, could you?"

"He disappeared," Charlotte said, her voice as lifeless as her face. Isabella suppressed a shudder. She was not in the mood to be mollified, at least not just yet.

"Do you know, Charlotte, what I have to contend with these days?" It was a childish complaint, but she was too angry to care. "Do you know how many whining, moaning, bleating notes I've received this morning alone?!" She grabbed a handful of paper and held it up for effect.

"The Montmirail affair."

"Oh radiant wisdom!" Isabella snarked. "It's not enough that the Inquisition can't even carry out a simple heresy trial without losing the defendant, but they actually seem to think _I _should do something about it. As if the North Parterre doesn't have better things to do!"

It would have been hilarious if not for that. The Church had gone to all that effort to prosecute de Montmirail, a star student at the _Académie __royale, _and couldn't even hold on to him long enough to pass sentence. On top of that, her father the King had forced them to hold the trial in open court, rather than in secret as they preferred. The result was a most entertaining farce, at least until the Church started trying to blame it on the North Parterre.

They had a point, Isabella could concede. If the North Parterre had been handling the security, there would have been no mistakes.

"So, Charlotte, you had a sublime opportunity to improve my mood by bringing me the Arysian," she went on. "How unfortunate that you failed."

Silence.

"Oh, take your rags and _go_!" Isabella snapped. "You weary me!"

As the door closed behind Charlotte, Isabella picked up another letter from yet another nosey parker, and tried to discern some meaningful information.

After a few moments she gave up, and began gathering up the remaining papers. She couldn't get any work done with that stench.

"_Not my best prank,_" she thought sourly.

* * *

The stream was bracingly cold, and not unpleasant.

So thought Tabitha, otherwise known as Charlotte Helene d'Orleans, as she eased her naked body into the water. Her clothes, finally free of the smell of manure, lay drying on the grass nearby.

"Big sister!" squealed Sylphid from behind. "Let me eat that horrible Isabella!"

"No."

"But she's a big meanie!" The big blue dragon stamped its feet like a frustrated child. "She splattered my beautiful big sister with kaka! I hate her!"

Tabitha sighed. She'd thought she had the measure of her cousin's pranks and casual cruelties, but this was beyond the pale. It was almost enough to make her consider taking some kind of action.

Almost.

It was a stupid, pointless thing to think, however satisfying the prospect. Tabitha could destroy Isabella without so much as heavy breathing, but the consequences of such a revenge would be dire, both for herself and the very small number of people she truly cared for.

No. She was a chevalier. She bore her burdens alone, and without reward.

At that moment, a very large and very wet tongue slopped over her, covering her in warm dribble.

"Big sister," Sylphid moaned, licking her again. "Sylphid loves her big sister." Tabitha sighed, and turned to pat the dragon on the nose.

She had been nervous about summoning a Familiar, but she could never regret it, not now. Sylphid was a Rhyme dragon, a species long thought extinct. Her magic alone made her a powerful ally, but there was so much more to her than that. Unlike all other known species of dragon, Rhyme dragons were fully sapient; capable of both speech and true thought. She had even come with a name, _Irukuku, _or _gentle wind._

Tabitha had nevertheless given her another name, and ordered her never to speak unless they were alone together. To anyone seeking to understand the nature of intelligence, or magic's relationship to it, a Rhyme dragon was a treasure beyond compare. If Sylphid's true nature became known, then the wealthy and powerful of Halkeginia would spare no expense, hesitate at no crime, and fear no vengeance.

She could not bear it. She could not bear to lose Sylphid, not after what she had lost already. Sylphid was not merely a dragon, not merely a Familiar. She was a sweet and gentle child, and a dear friend.

Tabitha put the thoughts aside. It never helped to dwell on such things, and they did not suit so pleasant a morning in any case. Remembering that she was coated in Sylphid's dribble, she held her nose and lowered herself under the water. She remained there for a few moments, enjoying the bracing cold.

"Where are we going today, big sister?" Sylphid asked, as Tabitha emerged from the water.

"Tristain," she replied.

"To school!" Sylphid exclaimed, bouncing up and down in excitement. "Sylphid likes it at school! There's yummy food to eat, and funny people to laugh at!"

Tabitha smiled a very small and private smile. She would feel a lot better once she was back there, and for much the same reasons. The academy was one of few places that fed her as much as she liked, and its library would keep her busy for many years to come. It was also one of even fewer places where she felt _mostly _safe.

She glanced up at the sky, following the gentle drift of the clouds. If they flew high and fast, catching the wind from the south, they could be at the academy by nightfall.

"Sylphid," she said, standing up. "Let's go."

"I'll dry you!" the dragon proclaimed. Tabitha stood still, allowing Sylphid's hot breath to blow the water from her bare skin.

Yes, a dragon was a helpful ally.

* * *

_**The Magic Academy, Kingdom of Tristain**_

Suleiman did his best to look suitably noble and self-assured. This was rather difficult, as his stomach was currently trying to escape via his throat.

He was standing in front of the headmaster's desk, Tiffania beside him. The office around them was in much the same style as the room he had woken up in, and sparsely furnished but for the long, broad desk in front of him, and some wardrobes along the walls. Suleiman was mildly surprised by this. In Arysia he would have greeted a guest in his _selamlik, _a place of wealth and welcome. Yet here he was, standing in front of a desk like a supplicant.

Which he pretty much was.

Suleiman glanced at Tiffania, and his heart ached to see the fear in her eyes. That in itself was a surprise, for he had known her only a few short hours. It was true that had been kind to him, but he couldn't just care about someone, just like that.

Could he?

"So, you are the new Familiar," the very old man seated at the desk said. He had very long white hair and a long white moustache and beard. Small, piercing eyes gazed out at him from under a heavy brow lined with bushy white eyebrows. "I am Headmaster Osmond. Welcome to our academy."

His tone was pleasant, almost grandfatherly, and Suleiman felt his fear recede. Perhaps was there was nothing to fear from this old man.

"Miss Westwood." Osmond turned his attention to Tiffania. "You are a third-year student, but the rules of the academy require that Familiars be summoned during the formal ceremony."

"I…I am sorry, headmaster!" Tiffania wailed. "I…I just wanted my Familiar so badly." She lowered her head, and Suleiman saw her lip wobbling. "Everyone is so happy with their Familiars. I thought it would be…so wonderful."

"Have no fear child," the headmaster said kindly. "No great harm has been done, and you were led astray by Miss Valliere in any case. Don't bother trying to deny it."

Suleiman suppressed a chuckle. Osman was either quite astute or knew his students very well. But there was another question; why would Louise have manipulated Tiffania into summoning him? And what did it mean for him to be a Familiar?

"The real surprise," Osman went on, "was that you were able to summon a Familiar at all. That is, until I saw that your Familiar is a boy. There is only one explanation."

"Begging your pardon, headmaster," Suleiman spoke up. "But I do not understand. What does it meant to be a Familiar?"

Osman paused, seemingly surprised by the question.

"It would take a little while to explain," he said. "Might I at first know your name, young man?"

"I am Suleiman Reza Al-Karim," Suleiman introduced himself, bowing his head in respect.

"A fine name," Osmond commented. "Though I must ask…are you by any chance from the Rub'al Khali?"

"I am from Arysia, headmaster, which is beyond the Elvish lands."

"I see." Osmond seemed to be thinking very hard. "I thought that might be the case. The term Al-karim sounds like a dialect of Elvish."

The word _Elvish _sent a shiver down Suleiman's spine. He was glad of the strip of cloth concealing his pointed ears, and of the hat hiding Tiffania's. Both Saito and Louise had insisted they be hidden, and Suleiman suspected it was with good reason.

"If I understand correctly, it means _the meritorious._ Am I right?"

"Yes, headmaster." Suleiman felt himself blush to hear the epithet. He glanced at Tiffania, who was looking at him with wonder in her eyes.

"Ah, excellent." Osmond beamed behind his beard. "It would appear that whatever allowed the young Chevalier d'Hiraga to understand our language has also worked in your case. That should make things easier."

"But headmaster," Suleiman pressed. "Might I ask, _why _was I summoned?"

"Fate, Mister Suleiman," Osmond replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "The spell known as _Summon Servant _calls the one fated to be the summoner's Familiar, be they in this world or another. There is no way to predict it, or to undo it."

Suleiman's heart sank. He felt a little better for knowing that no malice had been intended, but only a little. It did not solve his main problem.

"But…I have a responsibility!" he pleaded, the force of it making Tiffania cry out in surprise. "Majid is waiting for me!"

"Majid, you say?" the old man mused. "A friend of yours?"

"He is my ghulam, my companion!" Suleiman choked back the lump rising in his throat. "I can't abandon him! I can't leave him alone!"

"I see." Osmond ran a gnarled hand through his beard. "That complicates things."

"Suleiman." Tiffania turned to face him, taking his hands in hers. "I said I'd go with you, wherever you want to go." Her eyes were full of sympathy, of pity. Suleiman felt as if his heart would burst.

"But…" He faltered, his soul roiling like the ocean in a storm. "I don't even know where to start. It could take months. I…I can't take you away from here."

"I was the one who brought you here," Tiffania insisted, smiling. "I'm responsible for it."

"But your dreams…"

"Perhaps there is another way to handle this," Osmond interjected gently. "Mister Suleiman, where did you last see your companion?"

"In Lutece, headmaster. We were there for the Carnival."

"Ah, the Carnival! That takes me back!" Osmond chuckled a particularly dirty chuckle. "But fear not young man. I have certain…_influence _in Lutece, and also the ear of the Queen. It just so happens that her majesty will be here tomorrow, for the investiture of the new order of the Ondine Knights."

"Headmaster…" Tears of joy welled up in Suleiman's eyes. "How can I express my gratitude?!"

"By staying here with Miss Westwood, in safety." Osmond was still smiling, but something shifted in his countenance. "I should warn you mister Suleiman. Arysians are all but unknown in Halkeginia, so your presence is bound to attract interest in…certain quarters. I am certain her Majesty would agree that you had best remain here."

"I am grateful, Headmaster." Suleiman bowed again. He opened his mouth to speak again, but faltered as he saw Osmond holding his hand up to his wizened ear. Suleiman narrowed his eyes as he focussed on the hand, and saw a small white mouse sitting on it. If he didn't know better, he would've thought it was _whispering _into the old man's ear.

"White you say?" Osmond was agog. "Silk? Oh my!"

Tiffania cried out, clasping her hands to the hem of her skirt and her face flushing red. Only then did Suleiman realise what he was talking about.

* * *

_**Grand Troyes Palace, Lutece, Kingdom of Gallia**_

It really was an impressive map.

The green hills and valleys of Halkeginia undulated across the table before him, the mountains rising craggy and grey. Rivers, lakes, and even seas of reflective glass glittered in the sunlight streaming in through the windows. Miniature towns and cities speckled the landscape, connected by tiny silver roads. The man who had made it was now a count, with a substantial estate in the Auvergne. Joseph de Gallia sometimes marvelled at what his subjects could create when he offered sufficient incentive.

Most in his court thought it a bauble, a mere toy for their incompetent and foolish King to amuse himself with. But as with so many other things they saw only what he wished them to see. The map was not only beautiful, it was also very useful.

Joseph's smile widened as he took in the clusters of figures placed here and there about the display. The toy soldiers representing his armies and those of his neighbours, his air and naval fleets likewise represented by little toy ships. His eyes gazed proudly upon the fleets clustered at Brest, Toulon, Harfleur, and La Rochelle, the fortresses at Alhambra, Bayonne, Besancon, Briancon, and Verdun. Fifty airships of the Royal fleet, one hundred and twenty warships of the _Marine Royale, _fifty thousand troops in his garrisons, and money and officers to raise twice as many more.

What could a man not dream of if he commanded such strength? What might a man seek if he were King of Gallia?

"_A moment of remorse?_"

What he truly wanted, no armies or fleets could give him. What his unhappy heart yearned for, all the money in the world could not buy.

Joseph reached into his box of playing pieces, fingering through them for one piece in particular. Finding it, he drew out a simple human figurine, made of solid silver, and held it up to the light.

"Miodaitnir," he whispered, to the empty room around him. "I would look upon you."

"Sorry for keeping you waiting," replied a familiar voice from the shadows. "My lord Joseph."

"Mioz," he greeted her, using the shortened version of her title. "I trust you have done your part?"

"De Montmirail is well away, my lord." Miodaitnir smiled as she knelt before him.

"And the Cardinals are in a kerfuffle?"

"Their britches would be around their ankles," her smile widened, "if they wore any."

"Good. Very good."

Joseph turned to regard Miodaitnir, otherwise known as Sheffield. Her lithe form was pleasing to his eye, as were those raptor-like eyes, but her skill at magic pleased him even more, as did her ability to get certain things done. There were few he valued quite so much as her.

"Come Mioz," he gestured towards the table. "Come see the world."

Sheffield stood up, still smiling, and sashayed over to the map table. Joseph stepped around it, standing next to Tristain.

"I wonder, Mioz," he mused, "if that murderous prig Sotomayor understands the opportunity I am handing him. He and his cassocked cut-throats are all too predictable in their ambitions."

"I advise you not to underestimate him, my lord." Sheffield's smile faltered. "He is a fanatic, but he is also clever and ruthless, and able to see the big picture. He will not make the sorts of mistakes fanatics generally do."

"All the same, I know him," Joseph insisted, smirking. "I know what he wants, so I know what he will do. He wants power within the church, so he will take the opportunity I have given him."

He raised the silver figurine, perusing it in the light.

"Do you know, Mioz, what my daughter told me this morning?"

"No, my lord."

"She…_regretfully _informed me that the young Arysian has managed to give her the slip, and in a most unusual way."

"My lord?"

"He escaped…through a summoning portal." He glanced sideways at Miodaitnir, his smile widening. "You know what this means, don't you?"

"The void user," Sheffield breathed. "Lifdrasir."

"Indeed." Joseph held up the silver figurine for her to see. "All four are now in play. But where, I wonder?" He glanced around the map. "We have Gandalfr in Tristain, Windalfr in Romalia, and you Mioz here in Gallia, leaving…"

"Albion."

"Albion, indeed." Joseph leaned over towards the island, making to put the silver figurine down, then hesitated.

"Unless…" he glanced up at Miodaitnir, "you know something."

"A…possibility, my Lord."

"Oh-ho?"

"Something I discovered in Albion, my lord." Sheffield's brow furrowed. "Regarding Archduke John and his elvish mistress."

"I know that story, Mioz."

"There was a child, my lord."

Silence.

"I see." Joseph straightened up, and then chuckled at the thought of it. "Well, I knew it could not be Marcillac, or any of the others. What know you of this child, Mioz?" Sheffield took a deep breath.

"I know, my lord, that Valliere and her companions were up to something in the Westwood," she said, her voice almost hoarse with the enormity of what she was about to say. "And that Henrietta sent a ship to collect them afterwards."

"Yes." Joseph chuckled again, placing the silver figurine in Tristain. "What a lucky little queen. Now she has _two _void mages at her disposal; and one of them with a better claim on the throne of Albion than she _and _the incumbent combined."

"My lord!" Sheffield fell to her knees. "Please forgive me! Had I not failed to capture Valliere…!"

"It's all right, Mioz." Joseph stepped away from the table to stand in front of Sheffield, placing a fatherly hand on her head. "There will be more opportunities."

"My lord is so kind to me." Sheffield took his hand and pressed it to her porcelain-smooth cheek. Joseph smiled, allowing her that small pleasure. After all, if it made her happy…

"Marcillac is a nonentity," he said, turning back to the table, allowing the smile to fall from his face. "He calls himself King, yet merely enacts the will of his master the Emperor, while Marquis Handenburg and twenty thousand troops keep him on his throne. Even if little Henrietta could deal with Handenburg and his army, she could not handle the Emperor."

"They say he's dying, my lord."

"And if he does, we won't have to worry about Germania for a good while, but little Henrietta will still have to worry about us."

"My lord." Sheffield stood up again. "Please allow me to go after Valliere one more time. I know how vital she is to your plans."

"You can go, Mioz, but not for the moment." He turned to face her again. "We'll leave them a while, let them think they safe. I want you to go and check on Jormugandr for me, and ensure our pointy-eared friend is keeping up his end of the bargain." He cupped her narrow chin in his fingers. "Can you do that for me?"

"Of course, my lord."

* * *

_**The Magic Academy, Kingdom of Tristain**_

"You have to sleep there! You're her Familiar!"

"But I can't! It's improper!"

Saito sighed. Just when he thought things were finally under control, Louise _had _to find something to cause trouble over.

"Louise," he said, in what he hoped was a suitably placatory tone. "He doesn't have to sleep in here if he doesn't want to."

"But this is his master's room!" Louise barked, waving her wand in the air. "As her Familiar, it's his _duty _to sleep on the floor by her bed!"

"But she is not my wife!" protested a panic-stricken Suleiman.

"What's that got to do with anything?!" demanded Louise, ignoring a shriek of hysterical laughter from Siesta, who stood behind her with an armful of straw.

"It's really none of your business Louise," Saito complained. He was getting sick of this.

"Saito!" Louise growled, rounding on her Familiar-slash-boyfriend. "Just because I have given you…certain privileges…doesn't mean you can go around giving other familiars ideas! Standards have to be maintained!"

"Oh yeah," Saito grumbled. "Privileges."

Louise had some nerve talking about _privileges_. They had been sharing a bed for months, yet every time he tried to take things further she got violent. She had even blown him up that night at the palace, after she had _promised _to let him, and had the gall to call him a water flea. It was enough to make him wish he'd stayed in the forest with Tiffania, except thanks to Louise and Siesta he'd already missed his chance.

"What privileges are these?" Tiffania asked innocently.

"Mister Saito sleeps in Miss Valliere's bed _every _night!" Siesta proclaimed gleefully. "Though he finds little to satisfy him there!" Tiffinia squeaked and covered her reddening face.

"How dare you?!" Louise screeched, spinning round to loom over the maid; which was quite an achievement considering that Siesta was a head taller than her. "What are you suggesting, you importunate maid?!"

"I was merely suggesting," Siesta replied, her smile intact, "that Suleiman might like to sleep in Miss Westwood's bed, as Mister Saito sleeps in yours!"

"But she is not my wife!" repeated the very embarrassed boy, whose name was apparently Suleiman. "Nor is she my kinswoman! It would be improper!"

"You are a disobedient Familiar!" Louise snapped. "Tiffania! Use the riding crop to discipline him!"

"I…!" Tiffania raised the riding crop in a trembling hand, her eyes big and watery. "I…I…I don't want to!"

"You have to!" Louise barked. "Or else he'll be full of himself, like this lecherous beast over here!" She jabbed her wand at Saito.

"Lecherous beast am I?!" Saito snapped, losing his temper. "How about a spoiled little miss who won't keep her promises?!"

"How _dare _you speak to your master like that!" Louise shrieked. "I always keep my promises!"

"You promised we could do it that night, then you exploded me!"

"I made no such promise!"

"Strictly speaking she's right," Derflinger commented from his scabbard on Saito's back.

"Belt up Derflinger!"

As the couple continued their argument, Tiffania and Suleiman took the opportunity to slip out into the corridor.

"I'm so sorry, Suleiman," Tiffania said. "I don't understand why Miss Louise is being so hard on you."

"It's all right, Miss Tiffania," Suleiman replied, as kindly as he could manage. His embarrassment was fading, replaced by a seething anger at the way Louise de la Valliere was treating him. It would seem that as a Familiar, he could expect to be treated with contempt. He would not treat a ghulam in such a way, even one who was not Majid.

"Miss Louise is very particular," Tiffania went on. "But Mister Saito is very considerate. I'm sure he'll be willing to help you too."

Suleiman wasn't sure what he thought of Saito Hiraga. He didn't seem to be a bad person, but he didn't seem overly willing to oppose his 'master', at least not for his sake. There was also a strength and competence to Saito that Suleiman found quite intimidating. He was certainly a cut above the effete-looking nobles he had seen around the academy.

"Excuse me, young mistress and master." Both looked up to see Siesta ease herself through the door, her arms still laden with hay. "I take it you will not be requiring the hay?"

"No Siesta, thank you," Tiffania replied. "I'm sorry Miss Louise troubled you with it."

"Think nothing of it, Miss Tiffania." Siesta was smiling cheerfully as she used her foot to pull the door closed, muffling the argument still going on.

"Siesta, do they always argue like is?" Suleiman asked.

"Oh yes, Mister Suleiman!" Siesta proclaimed happily. "Though I imagine the argument will end soon."

"How, Siesta?"

A clap of thunder roared from behind the door, reverberating down the corridor. Tiffania cried out; Suleiman yelped, jumping away from the door. He caught Siesta's outstretched foot, and toppled straight into Tiffania, his head plunging into her breasts. In his terror Suleiman clamped his arms around her, burying his face in her bosom.

"Like that, Mister Suleiman," Siesta replied. "Miss Tiffania, please allow me to dispose of this hay, and I shall have another room made up." And with that, she skipped off down the corridor.

"Suleiman." Tiffania stroked his head. "Suleiman, it's all right."

Suleiman managed to straighten up, his face flushed with embarrassment. He felt ashamed of himself for panicking like that, though he had never heard such a terrible sound in all his life, except in a thunderstorm.

"Oh, forgive me!" He backed away, mortified at what where he had put his head, pleasant though it had been. "It was…wrong of me."

"No." Tiffania shook her head, still smiling. "It's all right. You were scared, that's all."

It should have been a shameful thing to hear from a girl, but Suleiman did not feel shame. Something soft and warm had wrapped itself around his heart, and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to gaze into those blue eyes forever and a day. It was a feeling that made him want to sing, and maybe even dance.

"Would you like to…eat dinner with me?"

* * *

_**Scarlet Tower, Ausonian Peninsula**_

The wind moaned in the distance. The candle flame flickered, casting dancing shadows in the corners of the chamber. The only other sound was the slow, regular crackle of turning pages, followed by the occasional scratch of a quill on paper.

Fernando Sotomayor gazed down at the book before him, his eyes following the elegantly curving script. He was one of only a handful of scholars in the Church, if not all of Halkeginia, who could read it.

He hated the very sight of it. It made his stomach churn, and his blood boil; a reminder of secret, forgotten sorrows. But his will was strong, and his faith stronger. He was one of the _Sinceres,_ one entrusted to peruse such forbidden material. Against the sacred will of the Founder Brimir, mere written words were as ash blowing on the wind.

He smirked. It wasn't even as if the book contained anything truly corruptive. The book was a rather formulaic treatise on alchemical metallurgy, packed with technical information yet lacking in the kind of heretical philosophy or concepts that might lead an unwary reader astray.

Yes. It would be quite safe to translate this one in full. The knowledge of it would be very useful to the order. Very useful indeed.

Fernando heard the low thump of footsteps in the corridor outside. It was late, and everyone in the monastery knew his habits. Whomsoever was about to disturb him was on very important business.

Or a glutton for punishment.

Sure enough, a heavy hand banged three times upon the door. Fernando did not look up, but a flick of his finger set the lock to unlocking.

"Come." The door clunked open, admitting two figures in the red mantles of the order. Fernando knew who they were the moment they stepped over the threshold. Their walks were very familiar.

"Brother Carloman, Sister Charlotte." He glanced up from his work as his two subordinates strode in and halted before his desk, bowing their heads respectfully. "I trust this is…_important_."

"The dispatch rider has brought news from Lutece, Grand Master." With his bald, bullet head and chiselled jaw, Carloman the Deathstroke looked as grim as he sounded. He handed a sealed letter over the desk. Fernando took it, noting the order's seal, and tore it open. The silence loomed as he read it.

"I see." He set the letter down. "So, de Montmirail has flown the coop after all. What an embarrassment for the Magravandines."

"Grand Master, we can go after him," Carloman growled. "I can assemble a force and be on our way by morning."

"No you won't, Brother Carloman," Fernando replied mildly. "Montmirail will be halfway across the North Sea by now. Do you suppose you can fight an entire country?" Carloman's brow furrowed in anger, but he offered no reply.

"Grand Master, dare we ignore this?" Charlotte the Pure asked. Her face was the porcelain mask he had grown accustomed to, her eyes flashing with a fervour he found truly beautiful. "Even if he wasn't a _heretic,_" she all but spat the word, "he's a Square class mage, educated at the Lutece academy. The Varangians will gain much from his services."

"Doubtless they will," Fernando allowed. "But if not from him, then from some other. It is of no consequence."

"Maybe not the heretic!" Carloman growled. "But it's obvious that Joseph allowed this! He's insulted the Church once too often!"

Fernando sighed. Carloman was a loyal son of the Church, and a mighty warrior. But his fury blinded him to wider realities, and to what sometimes needed to be done.

"Yes brother Carloman, it _is _an insult," he said, trying not to sound like he was about to lose his temper. "It is a calculated insult, by a king who seems bent on picking a fight with the Church. If we leapt at every such insult, we would sooner or later leap over a cliff. What matters now is what will happen next."

"His Holiness will almost certainly take the Magravandines to task," Charlotte spoke up. "This failure has made the Inquisition look incompetent!" Fernando nodded approvingly. Charlotte's zeal could sometimes get the better of her, but she could generally see the big picture.

"You may be right, sister. His holiness has great respect for the Magravandine order, and rightly so, but the Inquisition needs new leadership at this time. This debacle may finally convince his holiness to let the Scarlet Tower take the lead."

"And then we will be able to prepare Halkeginia," Charlotte replied, her voice full of trepidation. "Prepare them for the crusade."

"But what of Joseph?" Carloman growled, cocking a thin eyebrow. "He'll oppose us, and…we cannot face him alone."

"Fear not, my son. Joseph will be dealt with." The great bell chimed, its notes low and dull through the stone of the walls.

"The night is upon us," Fernando said. "You should attend to Tybalt before compline prayers." He saw the look in their eyes, and was pleased. Their compassion for their comrade was a worthy sentiment, as was their reverence for his holy suffering. It was good for them to be reminded of the sin of pride, and its price.

He waited until they had left the chamber, and the door was locked, before picking up the letter once again. He focussed his attention on the second half of the message, the part he hadn't told them about.

No, his eyes had not deceived him.

"_But why?_" he thought, his tired mind racing as the letter fell from his hands. "_Why did they come here? What is happening in Arysia?_"

It was time to pray. Perhaps the Founder could show him the way.

He had always done so before.

* * *

_**The Magic Academy, Kingdom of Tristain, **__**19**__**th**__** day of Feoh.**_

Dawn was breaking.

As Suleiman halted at the edge of the forest, he could see the first daylight rising on the distant horizon, the black of night turning to green, and grey, and brown as the yellow light spilled over it.

He smiled. He was in time. The same sun that rose before, far in the east, was also rising over his homeland of Arysia. So it had always done, so it always would do.

Suleiman went down on his right knee, his cloak spilling out around him. His open hands spread to face the rising sun, the tips of his fingers brushing the dew-laden grass. He raised his head, letting the light shine on his face, as he had done on so many mornings, from the day he could speak.

_To you I give the morning, the light, and the sky._

_To you I give the evening, the night, and the earth._

_To you I give artifice, intellect, and feeling._

_To you I give an open mind, an open heart, and hand_

The prayer was simple, familiar. He had spoken it upon desert sands and windswept plains, upon earth frozen solid, and the hard wood of a ship's deck. It had accompanied him all the days of his life, and those of countless other lives, throughout his distant homeland.

He opened his eyes. The sun was still rising, and his heart rose with it.

_From you the gift of wisdom, from you a sacred heritage_

_From you the light of reason, from you the heart that believes._

He remembered saying it for the first time, and his child's joy at being able to speak to the Prophet. He remembered the smiles of the grown-ups, and the pride in his father's eyes.

_For you are the prophet, who told us the truth_

_For you are the guide, who showed us the way. _

_For you are the guardian, who taught us our strength_

_For you are Cyras, who united the many._

A feeling of peace settled upon him as he stood up, and gazed over the newly-lit landscape.

"That was beautiful."

The voice made him jump almost out of his boots. He spun round, embarrassed and afraid.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" It was Tiffania, her hand flying to her mouth as she flinched from him. "I…I didn't mean to startle you!"

"It's…it's all right." Suleiman was relieved, but he felt his cheeks redden. "It's not something that needs to be hidden. I just…" He massaged the back of his neck. "I just never did it before someone not of my homeland, that's all."

"The words were so beautiful," Tiffania said, smiling. "Is it your custom to recite poetry to the sun?"

"It wasn't a poem," Suleiman replied, a little more testily than was entirely fair. After all, she could not have known anything of his people's beliefs. "It was a prayer to the Prophet Cyras, one we recite in the morning as the sun rises."

"A prayer?" Tiffania looked awkward. "I know what that is, but I've never said anything like that before."

"Never?" Suleiman was taken aback. He had never met anyone who knew literally _nothing _of religion. Even the crew of the _Drinker of the Wind_ had faith, crudely expressed though it was.

"Never. I was never taught about such things." She smiled, and the irritation he felt at her questioning evaporated like the dew from the grass around them. "You see, I lived in the forest for as long as I could remember. Until Saito and Miss Louise came from me, and Miss Siesta and Miss Agnes too, I knew nothing about the world. I only know a song of Brimir's Familiars, though I can't say where I heard it from."

"A song? You like to sing?"

"Oh yes!" Tiffania's blue eyes sparkled. "I can sing it for you, if you like." She looked away, blushing, and Suleiman saw that she was carrying a small harp. He felt his own cheeks reddening, as he realised how much he wanted to hear her song.

"Oh, but…" The sight of a tree stump spared him further embarrassment. With a flourish he pulled his cloak from his shoulders and swept it over the smooth stump.

"Oh, thank you." Tiffania giggled as she sat down. Suleiman squatted nearby, his eyes on her as she cautiously plucked at her harp. The tone was evidently not to her liking.

"It…doesn't seem quite right," she said, her brow furrowing.

"Please, allow me." Suleiman held out his hands. Tiffania paused a moment, then handed the harp over. Suleiman held the instrument carefully, examining it with experienced eye. Its form was simple and elegant, almost certainly of Elvish make. With deft fingers he adjusted the strings, then handed it back to Tiffania. She plucked at it, smiling at the more pleasing tone.

"Thank you. I never knew exactly how to do it."

"I've been learning music since I was very young," Suleiman explained proudly. "I learnt the sitar mostly, but I've also played harps. Tuning them right is as much intuitive as anything else."

"I see." Tiffania nodded, understanding. "It was my mother's. I…taught myself."

"Then let me hear!" Suleiman almost shouted. Tiffania eased the harp into the crook of her arm and began to play. The melody seemed to whisper in the trees, beautiful and yet somehow haunting.

_The left hand of God, Gandalfr_

_Brave shield of God_

_The right hand of God, Windalfr_

_Gentle flute of God_

Suleiman was entranced. Her voice seemed to reach into his soul, caressing his heart and tempting his mind.

_The mind of God, Miodaitnir_

_Fragment of God's wisdom_

_And lastly one more_

_Whose name is forgotten_

_I followed the four_

_We came to this place_

Tiffania lowered her harp, a wistful smile on her face.

"Beautiful, Miss Tiffania," Suleiman breathed. "But…it seems incomplete somehow."

"I thought so too," Tiffania agreed. "It's as if it were written by someone who didn't know the whole story." She paused, and her smile faltered. "Or as if…it was too painful to remember."

Suleiman did not reply. It occurred to him in that moment just how _little _he knew of Halkeginia, and its history.

An explosion made him jump. His head snapped round, staring back through the trees towards the academy. A column of black smoke was rising from one of the towers.

"Filthy dog!" The cry was distant, but just about audible. "You dare dream of bosoms other than your master's!? Lecherous beast! Water flea!"

"Oh dear," Tiffania commented. "Mister Saito has displeased Miss Louise again."

* * *

_**Upon the main road**_

The cavalcade of carriages bumped and clattered along the dirt road, coachmen hanging on for dear life. Armoured mage-knights rode in pairs between each carriage, and green-clad musketeers screened on either side.

Henrietta de Tristain was not enjoying the journey much. It was not the destination that bothered her; the academy was generally a pleasant place to visit, and she would be in good company. It was the state of the road that made it so unpleasant. She was sure the potholes had gotten worse since last she had passed that way.

"Cardinal Mazarin," she said to her companion, seated opposite. "Do we still have that proposal for paving the roads?"

"Yes, your majesty," the elderly cleric replied. "Although it would be a boon for my old bones, I must recommend forbearance. The kingdom has already voted your majesty considerable sums for other expenses. It would be prudent to wait a while before asking for more money."

He was right, unfortunately. The war against the Reconquista regime had emptied the kingdom's coffers, and disrupted the economy in a thousand and one other ways. Fortunately there had been enough money to pay off the surviving mercenaries, or the situation would have been far worse. The burghers of Tristain's many towns had risen to the occasion, voting a large sum of money just to replace the furniture Henrietta had sold off. It would be an embarrassment, so they claimed, for their Queen to live in squalor. Asking them for more money so soon afterwards, even for a civic project, might not be politic.

Henrietta did not like thinking about the war and its consequences, though her duties gave her little choice. She saw its long shadow wherever she went, from the smallest village to her own court in Tristania. A great many young men, and even a few women, had gone off to war; not all of them had returned. The conflict had taken a particularly heavy toll on the nobles, and not through death alone. Many young mages had defected to Reconquista, and some of her own ministers had conspired with them. The traitors were mostly dead or in exile, but their families still had to live with the shame. Fathers and mothers who dared not show their faces in the capital, let alone at court. Sons with little hope of advancement, and daughters with no hope of finding husbands.

So much sadness. Everything so grim, so dour. And it was up to her to put it right.

"Something vexes your majesty?" the cardinal asked. "You seem pensive."

"I was miles away, cardinal." Henrietta sighed, trying to gather herself. "The thought of what I must do weighs upon me, every moment of every day."

"Such is the nature of duty, your majesty," Mazarin admonished mildly, but kindly. "I find it best to take every matter as it comes, and focus on what must be handled directly."

"You are wise as ever, cardinal." Henrietta straightened up, glancing out of the window at the countryside rolling by. "I'm actually looking forward to this little event. It will be good to see everyone again."

"It is a great honour that you will bestow, majesty," the cardinal commented. "The creation of a new order of chivalry is no small matter, even though it is your prerogative."

"I know. But it's the least I can do, considering the academy's services."

Those services had been considerable, over the centuries and in the recent war. Every male student, and one or two of the female students, had taken part in the war. All had distinguished themselves. Not all had come back alive. After much negotiation with her council, the heralds, and even the church, the decision had been taken to honour a select number of students by making them the first members of a new order of knights, named for the water spirit Ondine.

"All the same," she mused, glancing out of the window again. "I would have liked Saito to accept the captaincy. But he insisted that young Guiche de Gramont was more suitable."

"He _is _the youngest son of the House of Gramont," Mazarin reminded her. "And he was honoured for his role. It would seem that the Chevalier d'Hiraga chose wisely."

"Wisely? Young mister Gramont?" Henrietta's small, prim mouth broke into a rueful grin. Laying her arm upon the window frame, she gestured at one of the knights riding nearby. The young knight eased herself alongside the carriage, doffing her hat respectfully. Her squire, a young boy with green hair and wide blue eyes, did likewise.

"Alice," Henrietta greeted the knight. "You know Guiche de Gramont, yes?"

"For a time, your majesty," Alice la Durant replied cheerfully. Her skin was quite dark, with a narrow, pointed nose and long black hair.

"The good cardinal," Henrietta gestured at Mazarin, "seems to think he would make a good captain for the Ondine knights."

"Guiche de Gramont?!" Alice spluttered, almost falling off her horse. "That fop?! That petticoat-lifter?!"

"You think him unsuitable, Alice?" Henrietta asked, stifling a giggle.

"I'm surprised he's still alive, your majesty!" Alice managed to regain some of her composure, much to her squire's apparent relief. "I thought him a knight of the dance floor and the bedchamber, not the battlefield."

"I would have thought you'd have sympathised, Alice," Henrietta admonished her mildly. "You, the youngest child in your family, _and _a girl."

"I did once," Alice admitted, smirking. "That is, until he tried it on with me at your majesty's thirteenth birthday celebration."

"Oh how could I forget!" Henrietta burst out laughing. "Didn't you throw him into the fountain?"

"When I was finished with him, your majesty!"

* * *

_**The Magic Academy**_

Beatrice Yvonne von Guldenhorf was in her element.

The whole academy had turned out for the arrival of the queen. The students lined the drive on either side, alert and expectant. Before them stood twenty of her family's Luftpanzer Ritter in full armour, forming twin lines of ten. She was proud to see them there, a reminder to all of Guldenhorf's wealth and prestige. She herself stood at the head of the drive, with the headmaster and faculty, as was appropriate for one of her exalted rank. Four more Luftpanzer Ritter stood behind her, as was her noble privilege. She smiled as she saw the adoring looks her classmates were sending her way. The thought of being so visible, of being so above all her fellow students, was intoxicating indeed.

She glanced with one eye along the line to her left. Headmaster Osman was in the centre, clad in the same grey cloak she had always seen him wear. On his left were the female teachers, in purple cloaks and hats, and to his right were the male teachers in academic gowns of dark blue topped with green cloaks. Just beyond them was a girl of about her own height, but wearing the dark purple cloak of a third-year student, as opposed to her own first-year brown. She had very long pink hair spilling and billowing around her shoulders, and a delicate, almost child-like face. Beatrice was impressed by her beauty, and by her bearing, which could only have come of a noble upbringing. She had spotted the girl one or two times since she had arrived, but did not yet know who she was.

Behind her was a real oddity. It was a young man, maybe a little older than herself. His hair was a particularly glossy black, but it was the unusual shape of his face that marked him out. That, and the coat and trousers he wore; they were made of no fabric or style she had ever seen. On his back hung a great meat cleaver of a sword, marking him as what Germanians would call a _dienstmann_.

"_Where _did _she find him?" _Beatrice thought. "_Who is she, bringing an armed servant to school?_"

But then she saw who was standing next to them, further along from her. Beatrice's hackles rose as she saw that long golden hair, that milk-white skin, and those…things straining against her blouse.

"_Her!? What's she doing here_!?"

She had been there less than two days, but Tiffania Westwood was already the bane of Beatrice's existence. She got all the attention, especially from boys, and was rumoured to have the queen's patronage. But no one seemed to know who she was, or where she had come from. She certainly had no idea of how to behave in civilized company. When the boys sought her favour, she ran away screaming. She hadn't even introduced herself!

And yet there she was, standing there with that bizarre hat on her head, looking like a bashful little girl. She even had a servant of her own, this one even more peculiarly-dressed in baggy white trousers and a blue jacket with a red sash.

Beatrice thought of challenging her, of ordering her to remove herself, of humiliating her for her presumption. But she dared not try anything now, not in front of the entire school. It wasn't worth the risk. She would just have to put up with it.

But not for long, thank the Founder. The rattle of horse's hooves reverberated around the courtyard as a dozen green-clad musketeers rode in through the front gate. At their head was a severe-looking young woman with auburn hair in a short bob, riding with all the martial pride of a royal mage knight. Beatrice grinned at the irony. Agnes de Milan might be a chevalier, and leader of one of the royal guard companies, but like most of her musketeers she was of common birth. For a sovereign ruler of a guardian kingdom to be guarded by commoners was certainly risqué; for her to be guarded by common-born women armed with firearms was all but unimaginable.

The cheers began as a cavalcade of carriages rumbled through the gateway, flanked by mage knights on horseback. As the largest carriage drew up in front of the welcoming party, Beatrice lowered herself down onto one knee. Her smile widened in satisfaction as she saw the Luftpanzer Ritter do likewise. Henrietta might be Queen of Tristain, but the Luftpanzer Ritter were of Guldenhorf. The cheers grew louder as a liveried groom opened the door, and the queen emerged. Behind her came an elderly man in clerical vestments, who could only be Cardinal Mazarin.

Henrietta certainly did not disappoint. Her lilac gown was a good match for her purple cloak, and the silver tiara glittering in her long purple hair was fit for a queen. She wore little in the way of jewellery, but the Ruby of Water upon her finger, its blue stone bright in the morning sun, was proof enough for anyone.

Beatrice felt a shiver of excitement. All her life she had been the centre of attention, the most special little girl in the whole world. But there and then, she did not mind having to kneel to this young woman, this queen. Her father's warning had been wise.

"Your majesty." Osmond greeted the queen. "Welcome once again to our academy."

"I thank you, headmaster." Henrietta's voice was high and gracious. "For your kind greeting, and for allowing us to hold this ceremony at the academy."

"Your majesty's smallest wish is our command."

Beatrice allowed the exchange of pleasantries to fade. She had been in such situations enough times to know how long they could drag on. Only as the queen's face turned in her direction did she regain her focus.

"Princess Beatrice." Henrietta gave her a fulsome smile. "We are _especially _pleased to see you. How are your parents?"

"Thank you your majesty. My father and mother are most well." It was all Beatrice could do to keep her smile under control. It would not do to be seen grinning like an idiot.

"The generosity of Guldenhorf is a boon in these difficult times." Henrietta held out her hand. Beatrice took it, her heart leaping, and allowed herself to be raised to her feet. Henrietta's gentle smile widened, and she gestured for the others to rise.

"Guldenhorf's pride is its devotion to you," Beatrice said. It was an excellent, very aristocratic sort of phrase, she thought.

"We prize nothing more highly."

Beatrice inclined her head respectfully as Henrietta moved to Osman's right, in the direction of the others. Mazarin stepped forward to exchange greetings with the headmaster. Beatrice paid little attention; she was too busy feeling as though she was about to float away. She glanced out at the students, and her eyes fell on three girls in particular, trying desperately to get her attention.

Beatrice allowed them a smile as she caught their eyes. Lizette, Constance, and Kitty were her first friends at the academy, with Lizette the first among them. She enjoyed their flattery, but most of all their company. It was fun to have friends to relax and gossip with, to accompany and attend her. They made her feel, as they saying went, like a princess.

A flutter of feminine laughter drew her attention to the right, and her mouth dropped open as she saw the queen standing there with those two girls, talking and laughing as if they were old friends. A bolt of lightning ran through her veins as she saw Henrietta say something to the pink-haired girl's servant, making him laugh and massage his neck awkwardly.

What was happening? Who were these interlopers that the queen should favour them so?

But this was not the end of it, as Beatrice saw Henrietta turn her attention to Tiffania. Her mouth went dry as Henrietta offered her arm, and the blonde bashfully slipped her own through it.

She had been snubbed! She had been _rejected_! And for _that girl_!

Beatrice watched, her lips tight over gritted teeth, as Henrietta and Tiffania walked inside, arm in arm.

Who _was _she?!

* * *

**After some very difficult times, I finally got this done. **

**Just a couple of points. The first regarding the cloaks; I understood that the academy cloak colours are brown for first years, black for second years, and purple for third years. Tiffania is logically a first year, and is described as such in the Light Novels, which confirm Beatrice as her classmate, but for some reason the anime has them wearing purple cloaks. I assumed this was a mistake. **

**The second point; of Beatrice's cronies, only Lizette was named in the Light Novels. I drew the names of the other two, Constance and Kitty, from **_**The Three Musketeers, **_**since ZnT seems to draw heavily on Dumas.**

**A third point; I hit on the idea of Henrietta holding the knighting ceremony at the academy for several reasons. It seemed valid that she would hold the ceremony there, since the Ondine Knights were all academy students (except Saito, but he's the familiar of Louise, who is). Also, I thought such an occasion warranted a little pomp and circumstance, whereas in the anime it just appears at the end of an episode. It's also a convenient pretext for getting Henrietta to the academy, so she can meet Suleiman in the next chapter. **

**I confess I'm not so sure about this chapter. I've been trying to introduce Suleiman effectively, and to ease him into the narrative. I have a particular horror of Gary Stu-ism, which has haunted me with the worry that Lei might steal Saito's thunder. On the plus side, Louise and Saito will have some very important scenes over the next few chapters, so that should make up for it. **


End file.
